Chapter CXXI: Matt

“Cute lighter,” I say.

“Shut up. I got a pack of twelve of them for my birthday and pink’s the last color left,” he says. “Anyway, you just suck in really quick, and hold in the smoke for a few seconds. Breathe it in. Then you let it out.”

Matt hands me the cigarette and I bring the filter to my lips as he holds the lighter alarmingly close to my face. The flame flickers wildly in the wind, an epileptic ballerina with one foot nailed to the floor.

It’s my first time smoking and I inhale nervously and then immediately cough, choking on the superheated smoke. I nearly drop the cigarette, but Matt deftly rescues it.

“You have no idea what you’re doing. Give me that before you hurt yourself.”

So much for the iconic post-coital cigarette. I suspect he is less concerned about my well-being than the travesty of "wasting a cigarette."

Even so, I let his hand find mine and, for a moment, we watch the sputtering Christmas lights on the dilapidated house across the street. Matt takes a drag and breathes out slowly, and the smoke hangs in the frigid December air before dispersing like a cloud of tiny white butterflies.