Bad Sign

A little black-brown-gray-purple lump is huddled at the bottom of my sink, gently curled in on itself like a dead pillbug. When I turn on the faucet it starts to erode, but I catch a glimpse of a little black particle before it disappears down the drain and recognition turns my stomach. I breathe into my hands: hot morning mouth and, yes, there it is, the stale yellow smell of Parliament Lights.

I think about the lump of cigarette ash mouldering in my lungs for those ten long hours, seeping arsenic and tar into my mucus membranes. I run the water in the sink and brush my teeth until the gray film lifts off my tongue, and I try to hold onto the hypochondriac image of metastasizing tumors dancing through my head. I focus on that for almost an hour as I stumble around my house, preparing myself for the wave of need I know is coming as soon as I step outside and the cold air hits me and the open morning stretches out, full of fifteen-minute breaks and sheltered overhangs between classes, a path I know as intimately as the one from my apartment to the Texaco station.

I shrug on my jacket and lock the door behind me as a wall of frozen nitrogen rushes in, and my hand curls instinctively, lovingly, around the pack in my pocket. For a second I feel the inertia of deep habit pulling me forward, left foot out to take a step and right hand reaching for the back pocket of my jeans, for the red Bic lighter and the brief, beautiful tang of butane before I can really wake up. Slowly, methodically, and without letting go of the pack (so fresh it's still in plastic, twenty perfect little clean white filters), I tell myself about psychological addictions and breaking neural links, chewing gum and counting to five hundred, the unsatisfying trickle of Nicorette or the patch, the thin tastelessness of the water vapor cigarette, and how much like a breath of fresh air that first drag feels.

I need to quit smoking.

--- ORIGINAL ---

I can feel the clear space in the back of my esophagus as soon as the whatever-it-is dislodges, oxygen scraping down the exposed lining of my throat as I try to wheeze air back into my lungs. My diaphragm pushes up into my chest and my breath comes in stutters, and I can see my face distended in the mirror, eyes squinting, mascara streaming, cheeks puffy and red in blotches, the way I imagine the mugshot on my E: True Hollywood Story would look after they arrested me for a fourth DUI. Joaquin Phoenix terrible.

That's when I see it.

A little black-brown-gray-purple lump is huddled at the bottom of my sink, gently curled in on itself like a dead pillbug. For a second I wonder if you can cough up a tumor. My breath is coming easier now; the white spots behind my eyes are clearing out, and I push myself away from the sink, catching a charming glimpse of my seven a.m. face in the mirror, eyes open at different degrees and cheeks burning from a round of athletic coughing. When I turn on the faucet the lump starts to erode, but I catch a glimpse of a little black particle before it disappears down the drain and recognition turns my stomach. I breathe into my hands: hot morning mouth and, yes, there it is, the stale yellow smell of Parliament Lights.

I think about the lump of cigarette ash mouldering in my lungs for those ten long hours, leaking arsenic and tar into my mucus membranes. I run the water in the sink and brush my teeth until the gray film lifts off my tongue, and by this point my eyes aren't fighting the outside world anymore, and I pop a vitamin and try to hold onto the hypochondriac image of metastasizing tumors dancing through my head. I focus on that for almost an hour as I stumble around my house, drinking three cups of tea and scrawling on my eyeliner, preparing myself for the wave of need I know is coming as soon as I step outside and the cold air hits me.

And then it's 8:40, and the open morning stretches out smugly, full of fifteen-minute breaks and sheltered overhangs between classes, a path I know as intimately as the one from my apartment to the Texaco station. I shrug on my jacket and lock the door behind me as a wall of frozen nitrogen rushes in, stinging my cheeks and making me gasp. My hand curls instinctively, lovingly, around the pack in my pocket. For a second I feel the inertia of deep habit pulling me forward, left foot out to take a step and right hand reaching for the inner pocket of my jeans, for the red Bic lighter and the brief, beautiful tang of butane before I can really wake up. Slowly, methodically, and without letting go of the pack (so fresh it's still in plastic, twenty perfect little clean white filters), I tell myself about psychological addictions and breaking neural links, chewing gum and counting to five hundred, the unsatisfying trickle of Nicorette or the patch, the thin tastelessness of the water vapor cigarette.

I need to quit smoking.