Smoke Sketch


It's about three in the morning; everyone else is asleep. I go outside, sit down on the cold concrete steps in front of my apartment building, and pull out a pack of Camel Lights. I haven't smoked in a while, but I don't care all that much right now. It's quiet out except for the occasional car rushing by in the distance. The air is still and crisp. The moon is hanging above the building across the street, full and bright. I take out a matchbook and put the end of a cigarette into my mouth. I light the cigarette, covering the flame of the match with my hand, the sulfuric fumes reaching my nose. I shake the match out and inhale slowly, looking out into the dark city. The smoke tastes sweet, warming my lungs. I hold the smoke for a short instant and blow it out deliberately. The smoke streams out, floating and dispersing upward. I feel relaxed, calm, the nicotine making my head feel light. The cold night air chills my face, and for the moment, I am free and unrestrained.The lighted tip travels slowly upwards, dissolving the tobaccofilled stick, looking so simple, so perfect. I take slow drags, prolonging the experience. I am indulging. It feels good. I am able to forget about myself and deliberate only on the night around me and on the burning cigarette. The cigarette is burned almost to the filter. The moon has begun to descend below the building. I take one last puff from the cigarette, drop it to the sidewalk, and briefly crush it with my foot. I stare out into the sky, wishing I could stay in this moment just a little longer. I let out a small sigh and bow my head, preparing myself, and head back in.

Albert Chan