Ciggies.

Do you have a cigarette?
Can I light one up with you?
Can I bum a fag?

I don’t get it. I never got it. Smoking. It’s gross. I can’t stand the smell, and I can’t stand the taste of it on lips. And the health risks alone?! I’ve never been one to pollute my body with foreign substances. I don’t even trust the flu shot. But smoking? What good does it do?

A lot of my friends smoke. A lot of them. When we’re out, every fifteen minutes it’s a smoke break. Be it rain or shine, they will brace all weather for their nicotine fix. All huddled in a group. Smoking. Waving their hands in the air, gesturing emphatically while they tell stories about their children or spouses, their bodies fixed in a well-rehearsed formation of exclusivity, like when I was in high school and all the cool kids would stand by the smokers pit at the end of the driveway that lead up to our school… smoking. During class.

And you know that they totally think that they’re better than everyone, because it was just so cool to smoke. It was like a club! The smokers club of cool people. But the thing is, I’m not really a big fan of drawn-out suicide.

So there’s this guy at the office and he works with me on the 10th floor. He’s totally cute and seems really nice, but I never get to speak to him because I work on the south-facing-side of the floor and he works on the north-facing side of the floor. I occasionally get the usual nod of acknowledgment that all guys give to other guys, but that doesn’t even communicate anything and only frustrates me even more. And I can’t exactly walk all the way across the office and ask to borrow a stapler or a high-lighter. That’d be pretty stupid and silly of me, don’t you think?

But here’s the shitty part: he smokes. North-Facing-Hottie, NFH, smokes! Every day before lunch he goes out to the fourth floor cafeteria, grabs a coffee, black, no cream or sugar cause he’s healthy like that, and heads out to the balcony for a cigarette. But every, single, fucking day that stupid tramp Sally follows him out there, cupping his hands while he lights her cigarette, laughing and flipping that stupid hair of hers at all of his jokes, and enjoying the company of NFH while I sit inside, eating my stupid egg salad sandwich with Bob from the cubicle beside me and this chick from accounts payable. But sometimes… sometimes, I wonder. I mean, what would you do for a chance at true love? Could I do it? Could I really…would I really? PART TIME! Only part time. I would never take it up full time… but, oh, just to get a chance…