Liz watched the cone shaped smoky stream flow out across the patio. She liked putting on this little display for Marc, trying to see how how far her exhales could go and how long she could make them last; sadly, she was left to entertain herself tonight since he was out of town. Liz had her wine, her Virginia Slims and her feet up in the chair normally occupied by her husband. Its vacancy this week made her otherwise latent concern weigh heavily on her mind. She had reached a crossroad in her smoking dalliances over the past few weeks and now wondered if the decision had been made for her.
Liz loved smoking; everything about it, but also knew the consequences. She knew the difference between addiction and physical dependency and worried about both. She could already sense the addiction in how much she loved the ritual hand to mouth motions, how elegant it looked between her fingers, the blast of menthol passing over her tongue into her lungs but most of all, the calm feeling that flowed through her entire body when she treated herself. Physical dependency is much more one dimensional and easily defined. Liz read accounts from some who swear they were nicotine-dependent after just a few cigarettes; other lifelong smokers are able to quit with relative ease. It’s impossible for Liz to know where she fell in that spectrum or predict when she’d reach the point where she’d be unable to deny her brain’s demand for the poisonous chemical. At some point her body would exhibit physical reactions and by then it would be too late; she’d be a nicotine slave and would have to either embrace it or live in that endless cycle of quitting and relapsing.
Liz was a late bloomer. She had never smoked a cigarette in her life until a few months after she and Marc married 21 years ago. They were at a bar when she accepted a lit cigarette from one of their friends on a dare and ended up smoking the whole thing just to prove a point in her drunken bravado. Like most first experiences, Liz had no idea what she was doing so she didn’t actually ‘smoke’ it. But she liked it enough to become a rare-occasion mostly party smoker over the years under the right circumstances. She probably smoked less than two packs cumulatively over the years.
Liz only became aware of Marc’s affinities a few months ago when she had a stressful day at work that reminded her of Jessica, a heavy smoking friend she
used to work with. Liz would accompany her outside on her smoke breaks, occasionally having one herself when the mood hit. This past spring Liz made the mistake of texting Marc a rant about her bad day and wishing for the old days when she could walk outside with Jessica. That got the ball rolling and a few hours later her feet were in Marc’s lap and much to his delight, she smoked her first cigarette in years.
It was there on the back porch when Marc confessed he’d been afflicted as long as he could remember but like most of his brethren, stayed in the closet out of embarrassment. Liz had heard the word ‘fetish’ before but couldn’t understand how it could be connected to something like smoking and was enlightened as she learned more on YouTube and Instagram. Though it didn’t do anything for her in a sexual way, some of the women in the videos were beautiful and she could see how guys like Marc saw the sex appeal.
Liz began connecting the dots as she reflected over the years; how forcefully and passionately Marc kissed her and was more amorous than normal on nights she indulged. At the time, she chalked it up to one or both of them being drunk but now knew the truth and felt guilty for not making it safe enough for him to come out sooner.
They found common ground once he confessed. Liz admitted she liked smoking but didn’t want to be a full time smoker for health reasons; and didn’t like the idea of being physically dependent or psychologically addicted to anything. Marc apologized for the times he selfishly encouraged her, and Liz was willing to occasionally cater to his fetish now that she understood; as long as he respected the times when no meant no. If she felt the onset of physical dependency and wanted to set them down for good, he’d accept that and never bring it up again.
Liz liked making her husband happy as much as she enjoyed her Friday evening cigarettes. His foot massages made her feel loved and went hand in hand with a glass of wine and her beloved 120’s on their Friday evening in-home dates.
Marc traveled one week a month and Liz now sat out back by herself for the first time since their ritual began. It dawned on her all of her previous smoking encounters involved co-conspirators, including sating her newly discovered husband’s fetish over the summer. Tonight’s weekday cigarette was just for her and she knew a life decision she couldn’t ignore was upon her. Her mind vacillated between coming to her senses and quitting cold turkey; or embracing a guilty pleasure. The term ‘cold turkey’ seemed absurd since she didn’t believe one or two
per week made her a smoker; Liz felt she could easily quit. Just as quickly, she’d think why not, at 46 she could keep up her current pace for years without any real health threat. She impressed herself with another voluminous cone into the evening air. Hell, maybe Marc’s fetish is contagious after all. Liz thought of how much she enjoyed seeing the spark in Marc’s eyes and loved that she was his muse. Sitting out here together without a cigarette wouldn’t be the same. Liz rubbed her feet on the cushion of Marc’s empty patio chair; her decision would be a lot easier to make if he was here. In that regard, Liz was glad he wasn’t. This decision is hers and hers alone. A text broke her concentration as if their hearts were connected a thousand miles away.
Won’t be home until late Friday; flight lands at 9:00pm. Probably be home around bedtime if it’s on time. I’ll miss our Friday date 🙁
Liz thought she’d give him a tease.
I’ll carry on somehow…
Her text accompanied a pic of a newly lit 120 holding a wine glass atop her bare thigh with her crossed feet on his chair. She giggled when he facetimed her; she knew that was coming. Liz gave him a virtual show, taking slow, deliberate inhales, opening her mouth to show him the dense creamy cloud dancing between her lips before it snapped back into her mouth. A few seconds later she’d give him a side view of her exhale. Marc’s image beamed in her screen. She amped up the tease telling him her feet were lonely and she wished someone was there to kiss her smoky lips.
***
It was Wednesday now and Marc wouldn’t be home for another two days; and late at that. The gas pump beeped an error when Liz slid her credit card into the reader; she tried again with another card. Same beep. A voice came through the speaker saying the readers were down and she’d have to pay inside.
As Liz stood in line she noticed vapes were overtaking cigarettes in shelf space. She tried Jessica’s Blu in that brief window when Jessica half-heartedly tried to quit and liked it, but not as much as the real thing. Liz wondered whether the technology had improved but internally shook her head, dismissing the thought. Her eyes moved to the packs behind the clerk and realized she only ever had menthols; except maybe whatever she bummed off friends in a bar so many years
ago. She couldn’t remember what they were, much less how they tasted. She had never bought any for herself, Marc always took care of that. He had an affinity for long all whites and considered menthol smoke feminine. Liz had already made up her mind to take the night off and defer her next cigarette until Marc’s return. However, if she were to try something else this was the time.
The long line gave her time to scan the the overwhelming variety. Let’s go out of the box, she thought. The short soft packs of Lucky Strikes and Camels caught her eye. Oooh, unfiltered; that not out of the box, that’s over the cliff. Too much. There were more Marlboro Reds than anything. The only women she’d seen smoking those were tough looking girls at bars in cowboy boots or biker leather. Liz looked down at her conservative business attire: silk blouse, pencil skirt, hose and heels. Proper suburban businesswomen don’t smoke Marlboro Reds. Proper suburban women don’t smoke at all.
“Pump #3 and a pack of Marlboro Reds, please. 100’s.”
So much for waiting until the weekend. It had been 24 hours since her last cigarette; Liz still had a half pack of VS and her efficient nature suggested she finish those before opening her new pack. However, she bought the Reds specifically because Marc wasn’t there. Both lie passively on the table as she sipped her wine. Liz’s body wasn’t telling her to light up, she just wanted one. She wanted one to accompany her wine, the crisp autumn air and to help shake off the day’s stress. Addiction, she thought, had arrived. And it wasn’t unwelcome even if she knew the more sinister physical dependency wouldn’t be far behind.
Liz returned from inside with a second glass of wine and rested her hosed feet on the empty seat, unwrapping the gift she bought for herself. She passed each open pack under her nose; very different. The Reds were stronger with an unexpectedly sweet aroma. The cork filter looked different between her fingers but no less sexy. Did I just say ‘sexy?’ she thought. Marc isn’t even here to blame for that thought. Liz again made a mental note to look up whether a fetish is contagious.
Liz took a slow pull on the lightup not knowing what to expect. She learned long ago that tentative inhales don’t work so she took her usual draw and waited for its effect. To her surprise and a tinge of disappointment, it didn’t feel all that different; at first. The buzz began at the top of her brain and spread throughout her body. It felt more profound than the Slims and couldn’t discern whether it was the 24 hour wait or whether they were indeed stronger. They tasted different and produced a higher volume of smoke, which she found satisfying. The buzz was gone by the
time she ground it out. She searched her phone and was disappointed to learn the nicotine and tar content were similar; so much for trying something stronger. The only difference was the taste and volume of smoke.
The evening sun wasn’t quite down yet, illuminating the sky in a beautiful palette of pink and orange, low enough to shine through her half glass of merlot. It was time to go inside but too beautiful to leave yet. “Well, as long as I’m going to sit out here a little longer…” Liz thought, and pulled another Red. She was still fixed on how much smoke it produced, even the solitary stream from the glowing tip. The breeze had stalled so the smoke drifted straight up to the rafters in an unbroken stream.
***
Shades of bright pink covered the weather map with Philadelphia right in the center making Marc’s Friday flight out of the question. All he could do was ride out the ice storm and wait to be rebooked; he’d be lucky to get out before Sunday. Liz, on the other hand, flipped on the A/C in her Lexus and stopped by the liquor store on her way home from work to pick up a bottle of merlot and…. ponder how adventurous she felt. Her eyes ignored everything but the Camels, Lucky Strikes, maroon L&Ms, and brown packs of American Spirits. Jessica smokes L&Ms; menthol 100s but at least the brand was familiar.
As with every day this week, Liz didn’t bother changing clothes before taking her nightly spot outside. Her reticence over trying the Reds two days ago seemed comical as she rolled the short L&M between her fingers. The lighter’s metallic wheel and strike of the flint brought it to life. Liz was surprised at how easily the smoke flowed through the tube unimpeded by a filter. She stifled a cough as the rich potent smoke grabbed her lungs, causing her body to involuntarily expel the cloud from her face. The rush of nicotine was matched by the emotional rush of doing something so naughty. Liz recovered and pulled again. The second draw went much smoother and filled her mouth with a full flavor entirely different from anything she’d experienced before. It wasn’t exactly unpleasant; the kind of good Liz believed would get even better as she continued. The flavor was rich and full. Liz held the smoke in her lungs as long as she could, imagining them as a sponge soaking up the tar-laden cloud, becoming one with her body; that didn’t sound like a good idea and she pursed her lips to create a thin stream out into the night breeze. This is bad; she could get used to this.
Liz found she didn’t enjoy it as much if she exhaled too quickly but the cloud wasn’t as big if she held it in too long. She hit her rhythm of drawing slowly, a four-
count, and a lazy exhale up and outward until the ambient air dissipated the evidence of her poisonous pleasure. Liz’s chest felt heavy after two successive stubbies. She pondered all three varieties. Liz declared the Reds enjoyable and a pleasant departure from the menthol. Maybe the menthol effect made the Virginia Slims feel lighter. Her intent of reaching that third rail of ‘too much’ had backfired. In some way, the decidedly bitter quality of the unfiltered L&Ms were more satisfying than the other two. It would be impossible to put that genie back in the bottle. Maybe she can look at them like an exotic dessert in a fine restaurant; preserve them for special occasions.
Marc’s fetish was on Liz’s mind now; maybe it was the beginning spark of her own. She’d have to read more about it. She missed him and thought of ways to fuel his fire, giving him a smoky kiss when he least expected it; maybe at a bar or after running some benign errand in the middle of the day. She could buy a carton and leave it in some cabinet for him to stumble across. Marc and Liz were too vanilla for role play but Marc loved old movies; a fantasy of dressing up as Audrey Hepburn might be a welcome surprise for him. She’d slip an unfiltered L&M into a holder and enjoy the show. However she decided to come out back to him, she knew she’d made her decision.