I Wish I Was a Smoker Part II

“What are you doing?” he asked.

I am going to regret answering the phone.

“About to leave work,” I said. “What’s up?”

“I was about to put a couple burgers on the grill,” he said. “You wanna come over for a bit?”

I stumbled for the right words, my grip on the mop growing tighter. The Clash’s
self- titled record playing in the background.

“I actually have plans,” I told him the truth. “And I’m not that hungry.”

The kind of awkward silence where he knows he’s not getting any.

“Yeah? Well I’ll call another time when I can get lucky.” He hung up.

I heard my mouth make a noise I rarely use.

A riot of my own.


It is two in the morning. My car smells of fast food and crayons. I’m driving home listening to ‘Pissing in a River’ with the window slightly rolled down. The early morning air smells of a faint kind of lonesome. The pages of a vintage Rolling Stone high fiving the faster I drive.

I still wish I was a smoker.


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