Water bottle, brushes, an errant tube of alizarin crimson, another water bottle, palette, the contents of my art bag thunk on the weathered picnic table. Hamilton Park is pretty quiet, thank God. I scrounged to the bottom of my bag. Quickly I looked around.

No nosy neighbors, no parents of children Mandy knows from school whose names I can’t bother to remember, just trees leaning at awkward angles. I lit up. That first drag hit my head with an exquisite explosion. Clutching my pack of Marlboros and my lighter, I relaxed for the first time that day.

I rolled my shoulders preening like a cat in the sun. I told Tom I quit and I had for three of the worst days of my life. While eating stale Teddy Grams in the laundry room, I snubbed my toe on my old French easel. An idea bloomed with the pain.

I need a hobby, anything to keep my hands busy to stay off the cigarettes, I told him. When Mandy begged to tag along I said I needed alone time for self care. What could I say to their eager faces that if I don’t get away from this house and smoke I’m gonna bash my head into a wall.

Nausea rumbled in my belly. I scratched at the nicotine patch on my arm. I’m going to be sick as hell. I peeled off the patch sticking it to the easel’s edge. The blank canvas mocked me. Last weekend, I whipped up a handful of landscapes just in case Tom asks to see my work. He won’t but I liked covering all the bases.

In my trunk, I have heavy duty Febreze, breath mints, and mouthwash. I used to carry a go bag so I can stop and shower at the gym but Tom made a comment about my wet hair. now I just make sure spray myself down and race upstairs to the shower. Shooing away a yellowjacket I think about if I’m really fooling him. Taking a deep drag, I examined my lovely cigarette.

I pushed down another wave of vomit. You’ve caused me so much pain, I thought. I took another drag. God, I loved every aspect of smoking. I blew a smoke ring and smiled. Bile hit my throat. Coughing hard, I dropped my cigarette. I hurried towards the water and threw up. Eyes watering, I emptied myself. I leaned exhausted against a slender tree.

I noticed a fisherman across the creek. I froze, afraid it was a neighbor who would mention something to my family. I relaxed realizing he was just an old rummy. Tucked amongst the rocks, the fisherman saluted me with his can of malt liquor. I wiped my mouth and bowed.

Back at the picnic table, I drained one of my water bottles. Feeling empty as a pocket, I noticed my easel had tipped over and I’d stepped on a tube of red paint. I should go home. I’m heading back I thought right after I finish one more cigarette.