My face and throat are swollen. This is the third sinus infection I’ve had this year. I ache, go to bed with fever and shivers. I take antibiotics, which make my face painfully sensitive. My ears feel like they’re about to explode. My teeth hurt.
We seek pleasure, strive to avoid pain. Cigarettes give me more pain than pleasure, yet still I cling to them.
I smoke four or five before I get out of bed — the fifth is delicious with strong French coffee. I smoke cooking, planting, gardening, pulling crab grass. I smoke dancing, skating, riding. I smoke writing, reading, painting. I smoke in the bathtub. I smoke while making love. A cigarette is the last thing I reach for at night after I turn out the lamp, the first thing I reach for before fully awake. Show me someone more ridiculous than a jogger smoking. I can do five miles on the track, but only with cigarettes. Show me someone more dexterous and adroit than a swimmer on her back, floating, sucking on a cigarette like a submarine. If I am conscious, I am smoking.
