My good friend Frederick Grubin came by. We exchanged nods, and I gave him a package he had left at mine. In the exchange, we conversed until the subject of women came up, as it inevitably does. Frederick has recently lost his wife to the sea, where she had been stationed as a navy sailor. We're to attend the funeral in a few weeks. For now, we smoke to her memory.
Grubin did not inhale the coarse fumes until he met his wife. She, strong girl of barely twenty-three at the time, chimneyed tobacco like a human exhaust pipe, and began the trade in the navy. They had a way of packaging their thin white rizzlers on those ships, a way Grubin and I smoked earlier in commemoration: No filter, just take the smoke in rough.
The subtlety of the cigarette filter's necessity piques my interests. Smoking remains possible, sure as can be, but my throat warms with discomfort at its harsh embrace. One puts a filter in to stomach the lung-defacing practice.
No comments:
Post a Comment