Added: Adalberto Brayton - Date: 10.10.2021 15:16 - Views: 25643 - Clicks: 7873
It was past midnight, Saturday night, well, Sunday morning. We were having one of those wild smoking nights. Debbie Murray was practically the only pal left in the whole wide world that still smoked and the one person who could still make me cry with laughter. I took it, smiling. It was kind of a romantic friendship. Tried the patches, tried the inhalers. Did I tell you I even tried hypnosis?
What was that like? He had a very posh voice and he was trying to frighten me to death. Your toes are feeling exceptionally heavy. Your legs are very, very heavy. If anything the dead have more hold over the living!
It was going to be a long night. I poured us both a glug of extra wine. Debbie inhaled deeply. He had a lovely voice really. Yes, he said, once, when he was trying to help a petite woman get over her massive panic attacks. He woke to her shaking him roughly back and forth. She was in a total state. That sort of kyboshed it. I was ashamed. Debbie shrugged her shoulders. She was one of those types that seemed to revel in being ripped off.
There was always something grander than money on her mind. If I can substitute one belief for another, right, I might get there. Need to stop being a martyr, stop seeing it as some sort of sacrifice, right? Then I went into the praying room and prayed I would give up smoking, because the smoking room was enough to put you off Smoking fiction stories life.
I inhaled deeply and blew out. Nearly everybody I know has given up smoking; even the ones that you would think could never have pulled it off—the thirty-a-day-for-thirty-years diehards. The list went depressingly on and on. We were the grateful-not-yet-de. Perhaps we should all have a special haircut to identify us—The Last of the Smokers, the last of the Big Pretenders.
Debbie got up and put on some John Martyn. I only ever listened to him when I was with Debbie Murray.
We blew perfect smoke rings to Solid Air. She tried to sing along, but John Martyn is hard to sing along to. You just sound wrecked. I could hear my voice was starting to slur. All my ex-lovers were absolutely lovely! Maybe we get it all wrong, focusing on lovers like we do.
She had reached the point where she might start to turn. If we sort this out right now, tonight, by tomorrow we could be non-smokers. Think of it! We could be free! What a beautiful fucking sentence! It never even occurred to the non-smoker to smoke. Debbie looked fazed, then dazed, then lit up regardless, trying to look debonair. Joni was singing now. We have Smoking fiction stories do a switch.
This is electrifying! I was starting to wonder about her theory actually. It is impossible for me to become someone who has never loved. I will not ever become a non-lover. I have accumulated exes.
These days I read the zodiacs of three major exes to see if they are having any luck. The full moon this Wednesday forecasts major changes for all Smoking fiction stories ex-lovers. I am lover-less at the moment; so is Debbie. If one of us gets a lover the other will find it tricky, but not as tricky maybe as if one of us gives up smoking. I remember our first Sobranie. Her mother held open a beautiful Black Russian box.
I picked a pink sobrani; Debbie picked a blue. We both had an advocaat and lemonade. We were fourteen, sophisticated, cool, already inhaling. She liked that there was a song with my name in it. She never really liked any of my lovers when I think about it. Maybe she was jealous. Trying to think about them as lovely people is a real challenge. I am not deluded! The first of the lesbian dictators had a big thing about cats. In fact, she first fell for me because one of her Refuge cats sat on my lap. It took me aback.
When I did that thing, you know, replaying what had happened to try and give some pleasure, that line about the animal past always stuck and stopped me going further. It was as irritating as static.
She was called Caroline, the Cat Woman, and she was very beautiful really. She had a haughty intelligence that you could detect around her cheekbones that was quite cat-like. She was enigmatic, never gave much away. I never met any of her family and she never spoke of them at all. She enjoyed listening to me talking about my family. She loved my imitations of my mother and father. Her face would grow furry with pleasure.
She even kept a cat journal. The last straw for me was when we came back from Florence. We were so drunk by now that we were more or less talking or thinking to ourselves.
I took my fag out and stood at the back door and smoked under the sizzling, smoky stars. I would miss the starry-smoke the most. What is the point in having a gorgeous night sky without a cigarette to go with it? Just thinking about stopping was making me feel nostalgic. I went back in. Debbie was stuck on the same sentence again. The ashtray was overflowing. It was filthy actually. Filthy, dirty. How any of us could do it was beyond me. Every time I managed to give up, I stared with horror at those that still smoked.
Picture the oxygen tent! Unbelievable, Smoking fiction stories believable! Apart from anything else, it looks deeply weird, smoking, like something human beings were never supposed to do. Unnatural, all that smoke coming out the nose and the mouth. I remember mine. It was under a desk. Kenny Davies stuck his tongue in my mouth and then slid his lips across like two wee grass snakes or something. The first time both stink. The first fag is a nauseating experience, right? It gives you the boke.
I remember Margaret Millar forcing me to inhale so I could be one of the gang. It was horrible. Not nice. Not pleasant. Debbie was looking traumatized now. The thought of giving up completely was doing her head in. I know. It was like facing the abyss, the well of loneliness. No companion there. What was there? It was like a big dark void or something. I poured us both another glass of wine. My watch said three a.Smoking fiction stories
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