There’s one cigarette I miss above all. Months after quitting, I’m still bumping into smokes I miss: the drunk-at-2-a.m.-out-on-the-balcony cig, the fuck-my-job-end-of-shift cig, the I’m-feeling-emotionally-insecure-but-bet-a-cig-would-make-me-look-cool cig. But the return of MLS reminded me of my favorite: the I-filed-three-times-at-that-game cig. Brown-papered cloves would wait in the cup holder of my Civic. I would sit down at the steering wheel and sigh, exhausted but fulfilled. I liked to dangle the cig in my mouth for a few minutes, winding down, tasting the sugar-sweetness of the filter, staring into the dark mid-distance, resting my wrists on the wheel. Fingers that had so recently clanked away so many thousands of keystrokes would flick the lighter and crack the window. And then: inhale.
I miss that. [The Knot.]