Bummed One

Walking across the parking lot I spot a guy carrying a pack of American Spirits and stop him dead in his tracks announcing, "I quit. Can I have one?" He laughs and hands me a cigarette. He is kind enough to talk with me while I light the cigarette and take one puff realizing that it is not having the expected effect. I am not enjoying it. His name is Patrick, he's a writer and like me, has quit before - will quit again. He validates the feeling I have of hating everyone right now. My part of the conversation is not linear and I am ashamed of this. I wish I could hide somewhere and wrestle with myself. Patrick and I talk about quitting and how like heroin this addiction is and he tells me a story about a friend who quit the needle and smoking at the same time. At the one year mark his friend put the needle back into his arm but said later he could do this but never have another cigarette. That he couldn't quit.