ONE LAST CIGARETTE

Here I am in the local Barnes & Noble coffee cafe trying to relax, write, and enjoy a lazy Friday night. Too bad the man closest to my corner table is having some sort of episode? Speaking to himself, swearing, moving fast enough to force the rancid, stale alcohol smelling stench through my space again and again. Should I leave? Should I temporarily walk away, browse the shelves, with hopes he either leaves or finds the missing item so important it’s causing this electric shitstorm? What I really want to do is plant my fist right through his face every time he inches nearer my personal space on his way to the trashcan. I probably wouldn’t notice the screaming child across the room if it weren’t for his sporadic gibberish, nevertheless, tonight the poor child is only amplifying my frayed nerves. It’s like I am stuck in the worst coach trans Atlantic middle seat. No escaping this hell, albeit temporary and voluntary. Do I on some sick level actually enjoy the abuse? Why else would I continue with this Starbucks-Boarding though unshackled, my Machination bond posted in full? I’ll sweat it out this time. The pounding in my head out of sync with the irregular thumping in my chest. He’s still at it. I look around to catch a friendly glance and a knowing smirk. He looks at me though and says..”sounds like that damn kid is mad?” I smirk and get up for a cigarette.

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