Demon Smokes

Bob, I'm glad my line inspired you. Every once in a while words actually do my bidding. Mostly I just feel like I'm making mud pies with 'em. Had a nice dive today with friends. Tomorrow I need to go do some research for my romance. I realized this afternoon that not knowing the particulars about the plantation houses and colonial times on the island is hampering my writing. So I go do some research and set up a tour of a restored plantation with the great-granddaughter of the last one. I presume the Venezuelan Fruit Temple is made of concrete block with a thin skin of cement over top to make it look smooth, like everything else around here. You back from Florida yet, Jenny?

They’ve been hard on my mind for the last few days, like an imp dancing in front of me jeering and taunting. So alluring, so tempting even though I know they taste bad and burn my throat. Even though I close my eyes, I see one held between my index and middle fingers, smoke curling sensuously upward to dissipate in the breeze. They smell bad and taste worse and yet I can’t resist. I make an excuse, plead for a few minutes of solitude and race into town with one postcard to be mailed. My real aim is the ice cream shop in Harbourside Mall where they sell harsh Nevada menthols and lighters. I buy them furtively even though no one cares and hurry back to the truck to light one with an eager and shaky hand. Awful, but I can’t put it out. I drive home taking little prissy drags, not inhaling, keeping the acrid and thick smoke in my mouth like vomit, hoping the smell isn’t clinging to my clothing or skin. I fling the still-burning butt out the window when it burns to the filter and reflexively sniff my fingers. I gulp water trying to wash out the taste and grab mints as soon as I come in the door. He confesses he was tempted but broke up his remaining ten and left the crumpled pack to show me, so I would be proud. I am too ashamed to take the pack from my pocket. It sits there like a ball of thorns digging into my flesh.

--Barbara