the first time i visited my family in england, i stayed in a house that reeked of smoke. i’d never been around smokers, but something about it disturbed me, some vague imagery of charred lungs and wheezy breath. in elementary school, we had our first of many no-smoking assemblies, and the clearest thing i remember from it is a whiteboard scribble. some number in the thousands range, the number of chemicals in a cigarette. rat poison, toilet cleaner, lighter fluid, tar. in high school, a friend told me i seemed like the type of person to smoke. the first thought i had was that i rebuked it, because substances tore my family apart, and i was supposed to be perfect, and had vowed a long time ago to never make a mistake like that. the second was that i completely agreed.

the truth was that i didn’t smoke, and didn’t drink, either. i’d never gone to a high school party until the 12th grade. i was completely sober that night, and didn’t try not to be, aimlessly wandering the living room in search of something i wasn't sure of. crammed full with 150 people, lights on, no music. honestly, it was a shitty party. i couldn’t see why anyone wanted to be there.

so i lied to you that evening on the curb in front of a friend’s house, cigarette in hand. you said, “i didn’t know you smoked,” and something about it made me angry, like i hated that you assumed the best of me, hated that i couldn't fool you. so i said, “there’s a lot you don’t know about me,” which was true, but for different reasons. and i drew the smoke in, and barely let myself cough, and you took a picture, and i hung it on my wall.

it became a casual thing for all of us. accidental. a once-in-a-blue-moon, where the two of them would bring a pack half-emptied from their last night at work, or rarely, she’d lend her vanilla-flavoured turkish ones. sometimes they brought cigars, and i'm not even sure you liked them. but i took a picture of you in the living room with one once, even though it was dark in there, blurry, barely lit by green led. so dark you wouldn’t be able to tell it was your face, unless you’d been the one to stare at it. i have no use for that photo, but i keep it anyways. that was the night it ended.

after that, it was my girlfriend. usually malboro, but only because she couldn’t get lucky strikes or menthols, not like back home. one monday night, after we’d uncharacteristically spent the day drinking for brazil’s first match in the world cup, she nearly smoked an entire pack. she dragged me to class after downing two pitchers of beer, she took notes with a compass and a piece of paper towel, i walked home, she found me, she cried on my front porch, she walked to the river and i followed, she stared out over the edge and said, “i don’t know how to live.” her cat had just died, and i hadn’t been there that day, because it was homecoming, and i was drunk and lost in a place i shouldn’t have been in. i never went to homecoming after that.

in brazil, i tried the menthols she liked and brought a pack home with me. i thought i’d save them for special occasions, but by then she was gone, and there was nothing special left to wait for. i dissassembled the empty box and taped it to my wall like it was a reminder of something. maybe of the graphic on the front, swollen flesh and “smoking kills.” she used to find them funny. maybe i wanted to remember her laugh.

i didn’t go to homecoming the next year, but i went out late that night to a club; a notoriously terrible one. i hid in the middle of the dance floor, screaming till i couldn’t anymore, spotted someone who seemed out of place. a man who reminded me a little of you from behind. short, with a moustache and a stupid t-shirt i asked him about. we left, because it sucked, and talked for hours on the curb, which i’d never done with a stranger before. we shared a cigarette, and he kissed me, and said, “you’re beautiful.” i wanted to believe it. i sucked the ash from his mouth.

briefly, i found menthols again, a gift on a first date with someone i’d met on instagram. they handed me an entire pack, which seemed like a lot, but i accepted, because i missed the taste. months later, i ran into them again in the middle of a bar with my friends. all night they dragged me away, clung to me, grabbed me by the tie, danced with me and said over and over, “i’m obsessed with you.” but dating was complicated, and i was afraid, and i finished the cigarettes and never saw them again.

i started buying my own eventually. didn’t care what they were or where they came from, always asked for the cheapest pack. my non-smoking friends became smoking friends. i considered getting a purse. phone, wallet, keys, camera, lighter, cigarettes; additions to the pockets of my jeans. i smoked them alone, every time i missed her, every time i missed you. on the campus bench. in the park by the river. on the curb. in the snow.

we made fun of vaping for years, then bought ourselves some last winter. nicotine made sense to me after that, and i wondered why i’d been so against it all those years ago. my friends have tried sneaking vapes onto the dance floor, into bathroom stalls and bedrooms. one of them got kicked out of a bar for vaping on the porch. i’ve tried sneaking them into school, an airplane, a daycare, a tent, a dance competition, the back seat of a car. i’ve given up the taste of ash for mint, strawberry, watermelon, blue raspberry, white grape, banana, melon ice.

anyways. i see in vignettes these days. my mind hasn’t felt clear in years.