Cigarettes
I watch your pack of cigarettes hung over the car door handle every day.
It’s sad, really. You’re just like me. Except, of course, you’d never see it. I’m the girl you drive to school and you’re my driver, but for me it's completely different. I see you in myself.
I see the way you hide the packets. You’re ashamed of it, aren’t you? Well, that’s sad. I watch you smoke next to the car while you wait for me to come downstairs so you can drive me, and when I arrive you quickly toss the half-smoked cigar to the ground and roll down the car windows, so the scent’s gone. It never is really gone, though, is it?
Get Jouri’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
I pity you; God gave you an addiction that can’t be hidden. Though, I envy you. My addiction can’t be put on hold by simply refraining from visiting the grocery store. Though, we both got our quirks.
You’re awfully interesting. I watch you a lot, through the car window's reflection. You’re like me.
Green eyes and lazy hoodies, blasting music in the car and smoking when you’re nervous. I relapse when I’m nervous too. Or when I’m sad. Do you relapse when you’re sad?
You’ve quit trying to quit. Me too, really, I don’t blame you. You think I do. I really don’t. I wish I had your addiction instead, it's much easier to deal with. Though it’s sad you’re exposed to so much judgement.
We all got some addiction we try to hide. It’s a spectrum, really. So no, I don’t blame you. I admire you for being down-to-earth. Last year you were always trying to quit, now I watch your hidden pack of cigarettes hang by the door handle every day. You aren’t trying anymore, are you?
It’s okay, really, I don’t blame you. You’re just like me.
