New York City, New York – March 19th

I suck on my cigarette; giving my rage the best head it’s ever had. The white ashy spirit that lives inside the burning stick flows franticly upwards, clouding in front of the No Smoking sign a few feet above my head. I give a cynical smile and chuckle slightly. Somehow I’m able to burn and shiver simultaneously, with typical dualism. Ash and fire meld perfectly in the cigarette. It’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins. I breathe in and out in perfect rhythm. I try to breathe until the calm comes but it never really does. The cigarette burns to the filter and falls to the wet stone concrete that you would expect to see on the perfect cliché rainy night in New York City. Steam rises and drifts; the ground breathing with me, begging me for relaxation. Begging us all.

Not today, I think and pull out another cigarette. Long and white and beautiful. It can be the sword and I can be the big fiery dragon and this can all be some stupid fucking fairytale that five year olds fall asleep to and have dreams about. I flick the lighter and it sparks and flickers like a streetlight struggling to illuminate but never quite getting there.

“Motherfucking thing,” I whisper harshly and sling it as far as I can, wanting it no where near me. I hold the unlit cigarette between my lips, so full of potential like a dick that can’t get hard.

“Hey, man, need a light?” I look over and see a man standing in shadow holding fire in his palm. The embodiment of mystery and suspense and the kind of sexiness you’d expect from some old black and white film. I fumble a little and move my face forward, sucking in the flame and finally tasting the sweet nicotine.

“Thanks,” I say as he slips the lighter into his pocket. His own cigarette flares as embers fall softly to the ground. He steps further under the fluorescent lights put in by the hospital to make it seem like they give a shit.

“No problem. What the fuck’s with the no smoking shit? We’re not in the goddamned place anymore,” He bitches. I love him already. I see his face without obstruction now. His jaw is strong and fierce like his eyes. I want to enter into his eyes and live in the world of shadows and deep dark forests and silences that are just a little bit too loud to stand.

“This hospital, man, this place is like where all of New York’s biggest fucks come to die.” I spew out insensitively, immediately regretting it and my heart aches for a second as I remember why I’m here, but I take another hard long drag and blow the smoke towards the hospital door in typical spite.

“How long have you been imprisoned in the waiting rooms?” He asks, smiling slyly. He lights another cigarette and I begin to wonder if he’s a chain-smoker, not caring about the seething hypocrisy in the thought.

“Three days. I’ve grown accustomed to shitty coffee and whiny kids,” I answer. There’s a gust of wind and some of the rain pouring down outside the sheltered entryway comes in and the mist grazes me and for a second I’m a god rising from the depths of the sea. Then he laughs and I’m brought back. His white teeth flash and his lips dance like lovers full of passion. My cock hardens and I laugh along, with much less grace I’m sure.

“I’ve had to settle with decaf,” He shudders and grimaces over the last word. My gag reflex involuntarily activates.

“Ugh. That shit’s like sex without an orgasm,” I say, laughing at my own witticism. He gives me a look as to say ‘good one,’ or something. The silence isn’t as ominous and awkward as it could be in such a situation. I take another drag and ask him the question he had asked me.

“A week; in and out.” He answers. We both know better than to ask for details at this point. Everyone here has countless sad stories to tell. And we’re all sick of telling them.

I get lost in the smooth taste of the smoke and the striking connection I feel with this man. In my reverie I barely hear the intercom from inside the hospital.

“Paging Dr. Huervos: Code Blue in Room 256.” The woman sounds like she’s ready to yawn. She’d rather be anywhere else.

Yeah, me too. I think as I drop my cigarette and stomp on it. The room number registers. Cold silent dark frosty fear rips through me like a tornado in Kansas. This man – this beautiful man – looks at me and he knows.

“Go,” He says. Franticly I turn and run inside. I want to pray as I speed past the blur of the hospital around me. I want to but I know I can’t. I know it will be no use. I know my mother is dead.