I watched this lady smoke a cigarette. She was sucking the life out of that thing. I could tell nothing had ever tasted better to her. Every drag went all way to her soul. She’d inhale and look up at the sky. Back at her phone. Breathing smoke like it’s air. Drinking it in like it’s water. Just another white girl standing on a street corner in Brooklyn. But the way she smoked made me feel like she was more than that. Most of all she seemed a little insane.
The guy at the bodega counter looked like a deeper middle eastern Adam Sandler with some extra weight on him. He looked past the current customer to ask what I wanted. Whenever I say “Marlboro” it comes out something like “mawbro.” Nicotine is a fine drug, but more than anything, the act of smoking is the real drug. There’s a rush sure, call it an oral fixation maybe. Smoking is just something to do.
I’m on my roof now and it’s midnight. You can see almost the whole span of the city from here and I’m staring at downtown, mostly, which is in my most direct line of sight. The phenomenon up here is you feel like you’re alone and no one can see you. But my building is only five stories—neighbors on both sides tower above the rooftop. Everyone from the sixth floor up can see everything. But it’s dark enough tonight and the city that never sleeps seems pretty quiet right now, so I’m just standing here in peace staring across the Navy Yard and the East River and sometimes looking up at the Empire State Building just to make sure it’s still there (it is). I’m in flip flops and a big black sweatshirt. When the wind blows this time of year it smells different from last month, it carries something with it and you know summer is ending soon.
I stand here smoking on the roof. It tastes like all my friends I miss most, scattered all over the world. I put it out a little early, about halfway through, and stow it in somebody else’s abandoned ashtray that’s full of rainwater before I head back downstairs.