Cigarette Company

You took the seat beside me by the bar counter. You know, for the ninth time, you were late, again. I got used to it I wasn’t sure how to answer anymore, or look at you, or shut up, or maybe let the silence, even after five Martini, a pack of menthol, and my hopes all poured to that message you sent an hour ago, I’m on my way. I could pretend you were just another stranger who took the seat without asking if it was reserved because I would say no, or ask me if I was free because I might go. But then, even when a complete stranger passed us by, from the cigarettes kissing on the ashtray between us, he could tell.

You looked towards me.

Did I look back?

I could only remember how you lit that cig pushed to your lips I could only look at. You light me up, too, and I remember how you never failed to light up my feelings you could burn close to the filter.

“Sorry.” It still sounds the same.
You've whispered so many sorry to me it's the only word I could read with your voice. We've spent so much time smoking the only thing I could remember about it was a cigarette.

You threw gazes and cut them just like that, like you were trying to convince me so I’d submit myself, but I couldn’t look at you to tell you it’s okay, or I’m okay because I couldn’t even convince myself. I couldn’t look at you the way you could look at me. Because you couldn’t look at me the way I do. But just like day one, you’ve looked at me less than I looked at you. And it’s okay.
You took a sip from my glass, and I hope it could translate all the times I’ve spent when you hurled me stranded at a waiting place I learned to call rendezvous, back and forth, and at the final wait you wouldn’t stay.

Before the silence covers us, we light a cigarette, like it’s the only thing we know; our defense mechanism when words fail us. I could only concede the words to the nicotine, burnt beneath every drag and puff; the smoke is the ghost of us.

We grabbed the cheapest coffee in town that kept the cigarettes when they’re empty. They were always there, every night; they add up every seven minutes you were late and every sorry you made. I would have believed them if they could tell me they were witness to a confession rehearsed from the back of someone’s mind—wordless—unrequited kind, but in truth, never said. I would believe them if they could tell me you smiled best with me, not the second best, but the superlative kind—cigarettes after cigarettes—coffee after coffee and gazes that pulled gazes, stolen or met. Even if they could tell me we were only as close as whenever you pull in close so our cigarettes kiss, I would believe them. But I guess, it’s really nothing but caffeine and nicotine, and smoke and nocturnal conversations between you and I; it’s nothing but musk and smoke and the could-have-said words already burnt out in my lips; I could no longer shout on the top of my lungs.

Before I knew it, you emptied down that glass of Martini knowing I wasn’t drunk yet, but I was working on it. I was one glass away to a shameful twenty second of courage before you could reply Sorry, because that’s all you could do.

At a distance, if a stranger would watch us, he could tell why we took the seats by the bar counter: casual yet private. He could tell I’ve prepared myself to get drunk tonight so I could gain the courage and tell you. He would know that I’ve stolen glances more than I could return, smiles as short as every puff and drag, and that you wanted to leave soon. He could tell that we haven’t seen each other in months or half a year that night and that it would be the last wait and pull and let go. He would know I wanted to say something but chose not to.
We've only burnt cigarettes after cigarettes till the wish stick we've been keeping this long, this far.

And then,

“Let’s go?” You would always look at me—yes—always, convinced you know the answer. A cigarette between your fingers, burnt to the filter, words on the tip of my tongue, two empty cups of coffee on a corner that witnessed us.

And two words, “Last cig?”

You would only nod as you slid a cigarette between your lips. You would light me up, too, and I could only smile knowing it’s another couple of minutes.
They say, a cigarette cuts your life by seven minutes, but it’s the only way I know to buy your time and make you stay, and instead, I hope it could cut the seven-minute memories of you, too. This is the usual scenario between us, at six in the morning at a waiting place sandwiched between two convenience stores, yet never really felt convenient.