You shakily bring the cigarette to your lips and light it. It ignites and the tip glows a bright, warning orange. You’re sweating, so you wipe your forehead with the back of your hand. You inhale and the comfort of the smell, the Smokey, acrid taste is all you know for a blessed three seconds.

The Author is looking for you, everyone is saying, and now your mouth goes dry and you take another inhale. It can’t possibly be true—you’re not especially interesting, why the hell would The Author want anything to do with you? What story aside from this one could you possible belong to?

You look up at the night sky, which is covered over by light pollution and a thick layer of cloud cover. You wonder what’s beyond that cloud cover, if it was anything different from what you all know it is. Can that be changed, the sky? The earth? The taste of the cigarette on your tongue?

You bring the cigarette to your mouth again but your hand is shaking so hard it falls through your fingers. You stare down at it and shut your eyes harshly. “Fuck,” you breathe out, and a light chuckle comes from behind you.

And older man is standing there, in a stained jacket and old worn jeans. He’s smiling, and its genuine, which only serves to piss you off a little more. You aren’t in the mood to satisfy this guy’s schaudenfreude tonight.

“Fuck off,” you tell him between closed lips that hold another cigarette as you try to light it. You didn’t say it particularly loudly, but he hears it all the same.

“Rough night? Sorry, didn’t mean to laugh at you.”

You roll your eyes, then stare pointedly away. “Whatever.”

“What do those things do for you? I’ve always wondered.”

Your hands are in your pockets and you’re facing pointedly away from him. Of all the things—you are not in the mood for small talk tonight.

“I don’t know, man,” you say, shrugging your shoulders and turning further away.

The geezer doesn’t take a hint. “I heard its like getting a caffeine hit, is that right?”

“I don’t drink coffee,” you say, “that shit stains your teeth.”

He laughs. You roll your eyes again, but the sound of his laugh doesn’t feel as grading right now. Without thinking, you take the packet from your pocket, along with the lighter, and pass it over to him.

He wordlessly takes it, pulling out a cigarette. He frowns while he places it between his teeth, concentrating while he lights it. It takes a few flicks of the lighter, but he gets it eventually. He inhales, and predictably, begins coughing profusely. You try not to smile, but its a right of passage after all, to hack up a lung in exchange for the small kick tobacco provides. For the generosity it gives for people who never know what to do with their hands.

“Wow,” he says, eyes watering. He looks at the small thing in his hand and nods. “That’s terrible.”

“Yep.”

“That doesn’t explain why you do it.”

He’s still looking for an answer, and to be honest, maybe you’ve been searching for one the whole time. Maybe its for moments like this, when anxiety takes over and its easier to consciously inhale and exhale than it is to think; maybe its for the moments where someone comes up and tries to make conversation with you on the side of the street.

“I do it because I have nothing else to do,” you answer, and its the truth. It’s an amalgamation of many truths.

He nods, then drops the cigarette, crushing it on the ground beneath a heeled boot.

“I know exactly where to put you.”

You freeze.

It can’t be.

He gives you one last smile, and before you can drop your cigarette, before you can scream or reach out and grab him, he snaps his fingers.

“Here’s something else to do,” he says, and you drop.

When you wake up, you’re somewhere entirely new.