GHOSTS OF SMOKE

There’s a table derived of life other than a dessert menu and an ashtray, the latter which is slowly being littered with the ashes he absently flicks off the end of his cigarette. The man’s face is long with high cheekbones and a head full of thick grey hair. His forehead is wrinkled with the trials of life, the bags under his eyes speaking volumes of his weariness. His red-rimmed eyes stare out at nothing- at the ghosts of his past as they flicker across his eyes. They used to be crystalline green, but all they are now are distant orbs, shadowed by pain and sorrow and far-off happiness and too much knowledge. He shoulders droop, burdened by the things he’s had to endure, weighted down to a point that’s almost painful, but all he sees are the ghosts, wavering and taunting.

The waitress comes without being prompted, setting down a small glass of ice water, a mug, a silver pot of coffee, and a small stack of napkins. He arranges these things so the napkins are to his left, as the ashtray is at his right, with the coffee mug in front of him and the tall pot a little behind it, then the water behind and between the mug and ashtray. Crushing out his old cigarette, he pours a cup of coffee and adds a pack of sugar, stirring it with his knife. Instead of laying it on the table, he takes two napkins and sets them beside the larger pile, putting the utensil there instead. The whiteness is quickly destroyed as it absorbs the dark brown liquid. He glances over his shoulder, then around him, hoping nobody will notice him. He saddens almost insuperably at finding that his hopes are met, the restaurant around him continuing to share stories and laugh and smoke and sit in companionable silence and eat. He drinks from his coffee, then lights up another cigarette, his eyes detaching from the world around him to stare at nothing. To stare at everything.

He exhales slowly, the smoke spilling from his mouth to waver into shapes before his life-darkened eyes. Too many deaths, too many births, too many losses, too many gains. Too many memories for green eyes to handle. The ghosts wave and smile and cry and hate and love and leave and finally fade away. Another tickling lung full of smoke, another exhale, and more ghosts; the nicotine helps him relax, but brings back so many faces. So many ghosts. Tendrils and wisps of grey smoke touched with laughter mold into memories- the ones that shadow his soul.

He drinks his coffee, sipping from his water occasionally, and finishes off his cancer stick along with another before getting up to go to the bathroom. Nobody notices the tall man in the green and blue wind-jacket and immaculately white sneakers as he walks through the restaurant. As he stares into the bathroom mirror, he sees nothing in his eyes, because that’s what left. Nothing. His hands grip either side of the porcelain sink as he supports his weight on the heels, staring at the stranger in the mirror.

After returning to his table, he sips at his water, pours a new cup of coffee, and lights up another cigarette. His hands are creased with the passage of time, veins raised from the skin as if to taunt him with their deep purple color and life that color holds inside. He glances up wearily at the ghosts, a slight sigh and a cloud of smoke creeping from his thin lips. They refuse to leave him, and he can do nothing but stare out at nothing and everything and accept them. Accept that they’ll always be there, waiting for him to die and finally join them.

He finishes the cigarette and the coffee. Takes a sip of the water, then grabs his pack and lighter and leaves. In a row, from right to left, lays the untouched dessert menu, ashtray, glass of water, mug, pot, the napkin with the knife on it, then the larger stack of napkins. As the waitress comes and clears the surface, taking away with her any remainders of his presence, she also carries away a few of his ghosts, which he has left behind so they may mingle with the other people.

They drift amongst clouds of cigarette smoke and peals of laughter, sometimes brushing people’s shoulders or bending down to whisper a memory in their ears. Everyone hears these things; the wrinkled, the smiling, the rosy young. Occasionally they find one person to latch onto, disappearing inside that person’s eyes to haunt them and create another victim. The next time they glance out at nothing and stare at the ghosts flittering amongst smoke, their eyes wind up seeing everything.