were like a best friend, one of the most constant things in my whole life, I’m telling Susan, who looks at me with a mixture of kindness, confusion, and outright concern since I seem to be unable to stop talking about cigarettes, about how much I miss them in spite of the pride I feel for quitting the disgusting, and probably soon-to-be illegal activity; about how, when I listen to the American Lung Association’s self-motivation tapes about relaxation and visualization all I can see is the lovely blue smoke of a Camel Light swirling through a shaft of sunlight, and that’s all it takes for my other lonely senses to pipe up with their respective images: the crisp snap of a fresh package tapped against the palm of my hand, the sting and tang against the back of my throat after the first inhale, the fresh, earthy smell of a cigarette outside in April, the way my shoulders let go of the tension with each exhalation, the talismanic safety I felt carrying my packs and lighter; then I’m off into the philosophy of smoking as ritual, as part of my symbolic structure, and how now, without that tether between my psyche and everyday reality I’m unmoored, adrift until I learn to create other rituals for dailiness; but I stop now and look at Susan, and I suddenly understand that she can’t understand so I sit back in my chair, smile a little sheepishly, and ask her if she wants another cup of coffee.
