The last cigarette

My mind was in a post-party state of consciousness.

My adoration for it had begun the moment we first met after a high school party. It was significantly different from the encyclopedic hangover that plagues those who watch clocks and carefully count money. An encyclopedic hangover is characterized by a sharp headache, a hatred of food, deep reflections on the meaninglessness of life, and a vow to never experience such madness again.

My feelings were completely different. My thoughts were incredibly clear, flowing almost on their own, though translating them into human words would have been a significant challenge. Distance from worldly matters, the absurdity of social life, and the contemplation of every passing second. In such situations, music is an irreplaceable gift. A moment later, an avalanche of sounds hit me from the speakers, transporting my attention to the African jungle. A jungle where a group of half-naked savages bowed down to me.

After a few seconds, I recovered, got out of bed, and headed for the kitchen, where the water should have been. It turned out my suspicions were correct – a row of bottles, both carbonated and non-carbonated, lined the wall. I grabbed a sparkling one, better for post-party occasions, and poured it into a tall glass that, oddly enough, happened to be right at my fingertips. Then I had the idea to spruce up my morning nectar a bit, fiddling with the lemon and straw for a moment, then sat down at the table and quenched my thirst.

That was the first time I decided to try activating the memory of the night's events. I immediately thought of the moment I'd been smoking a cigarette in front of the store, counting down the twenty minutes until my shift ended. A few seconds later, that crystal blonde appeared. On a sudden impulse, I hurried back to my room and realized I hadn't been sleeping alone.

I'd known this all along, of course, but the awareness was somewhat peripheral, some obvious fact that had no significance. Only now did the true value of that sink in. For the first time in a long time, I felt happy. It was good that he was here. I always imagined this kind of situation when he came to the store, but I never thought it could be such a source of so much satisfaction. I smiled to myself, as I always do. "You're wonderful, Monika..."

I walked over to the bed and gently stroked his head. As planned, he slowly opened his eyes and yawned. Then he sat up and slowly looked around the room. His gaze settled on my legs and he smiled at me knowingly, as if he'd just remembered what we'd been up to all night.

"How did you sleep?" I asked, my voice taking on an innocent tone.

"It was tight," he replied, gently stroking my neck.

I purred softly and gripped the sheets with pleasure. I closed my eyes and savored the current situation.

"Do you have a cigarette?" he asked, and then he burst out laughing. "

Do you have one?" I replied playfully, eagerly handing him the pack. Just like yesterday, when the store was empty, I went out for a cigarette and sat on the fence surrounding the nearby bushes.

Just as I was getting ready for a warm bath and then a TV session, my favorite customer arrived. Every time he came in, I tried to strike up a conversation. Sometimes it wasn't so easy. When I ran out of ideas, we only exchanged technicalities about shopping. Most often, however, I managed to somehow relate to the situation, and then our conversations sometimes stretched to several minutes, which may not be spectacular, but was unusual for store visits.

Now, however, he didn't end his journey by entering; he stopped in front of where I was sitting and cheerfully asked for a cigarette. The package was already empty, so I let him finish the one I was savoring. Then everything merged into a strange whole, one I now recalled like the most beautiful dream.

Dinner, which remained unfinished because of the rush of kisses that attacked me. The champagne we drenched each other in the bathtub, licking up every drop. And the madness under the covers, in the armchair, and finally even under the desk.

It was all so beautiful that returning to reality was an unpleasant abstraction.

"I'm going to take a shower. Maybe you'll take a bath with me?" I asked, hoping to impress him with my casual expression.

"I'll take a bath at my place. Actually, I should be going."

I turned to the right, so as not to show those around me how much those few, interconnected words had hurt me. Within seconds, I thought the meaning of anything was highly questionable. Everything I'd built in my imagination had just collapsed to the ground with a loud crash. And although it was a simple statement of fact on his part, without any long-term commitment, I knew it was the end of my mother's dream of a perfect son-in-law. Perhaps it's perfectly normal for a man to want to go home in the morning after spending the night with a woman and perform his toilet duties. Perhaps this is typical male behavior, but the raspberry prince should have reacted with a different response.

No one will enjoy my cigarette anymore.