The Last Smoker

The last smoker wraps his coat a little tighter about his chest and takes another draw. The wooden tables and chairs outside the bar are sodden with winter's approach. Once upon a time the proprietors would have put lights and some gas heaters out here for their clientele but that didn't make financial sense any more, not for one solitary, old fool. The last smoker reminisced about those days, when you could start up a conversation with a stranger, get a peek into a life you would otherwise never have known, sheltering in a doorway and nicotine addiction your only common bonds.

He took another draw, holding the smoke in his mouth as long as possible, trying to draw out all the flavour. It would be some time before he could afford another packet, what with the price they charged these days. It was cheaper for him to fill up his car (not that he owned it any longer) than to buy a 10 pack of Lites. But damn did he enjoy it. He inspected the burning paper and leaves, pinched between two shaking fingers. A rare delicacy grown on the far side of the world, refined and transported over oceans and mountains just for him to enjoy, the final ambassador of a dying art. He didn't care if it was true that he was addicted like they claimed, he was good at smoking, dedicated and grateful. More than you could you say about a lot people in this age.

The cigarette had finally burned down to the filter and so the last smoker ground it out on the tabletop and, unable to find a bin or ashtray, flicked away the butt. It landed at the foot of a mother and her young child just coming out of the nearby shopping centre, the woman's arms ladden with a ridiculous amount of plastic shopping bags.

"Filthy habit," she scowled, pulling her youngster away from attempting to pick up the cigarette butt.

"Ah you'll be rid of me soon enough," called the last smoker then coughed heavily into his fist. The last of his kind.

Title image courtesy saad