With every puff

"With each puff, he's losing his life." Two friends sitting on a park bench, sunlight in the afternoon. "Such a shame." The second friend sits in silence. "It's warm. Why did you wear black today?" "I just picked something." "Hmm." They sit there. The smoker across the park lights a new one. "There he goes again."

"You rubbed all the fence posts on the way here." "What?" "The fence. You touched every post." "I didn't even notice." "You also hold your breath when we pass the cemetery on Fifth." The critical friend shifts. "So?" "So nothing. Just observing." Pause. "He didn't notice he was smoking either. His hand just went to his pocket." "That's different." "How?" "He's hurting himself." "Your nails are bleeding." The friend looks down at chewed fingernails. "At least I'm not—" "Destroying your lungs? No. You're just counting his cigarettes instead of watching the clouds."

The stranger stubs out his cigarette, immediately lights another. The ritual smooth, automatic. "See? He can't even stop." "You've been biting your nails this whole conversation." The friend looks down at ragged fingernails, quickly drops his hand. "Not everything needs a reason," the defender says softly. "Sometimes your body just moves. Sometimes you wear black because your hand grabbed it. Sometimes you smoke because..." "Because what?" "Because the world keeps spinning and you need something to hold."

They stand to leave. The judge hesitates. "Which foot do I step with first?" "You tell me."-said the friend as he chuckled. Other friend doesn't know. Never noticed. Across the park, smoke rises. With every puff.