YellowSubmarine

He sits alone in his apartment and relieves the humidor on his desk of another cohiba. He is about to smoke it in his own ritualistic fashion. First, he admires the shape and luster of its wrapping. He draws the cigar beneath his nose and allows the smell to fill his nose. Then he rolls the cigar between his fingers and feels the smoothness of the wrapper. He listens for a crinkle, the sign of a poorly rolled cigar, but finds nothing unsatisfactory. He pours an ounce of rum from the faux-crystal decanter into a double-shot glass. In it he lightly dips the end of the cigar, only long enough to not spill the rum or soak the tobacco. He then clips the end of the cigar and lets it rest in his left hand for a moment. With his right hand he passed the rum beneath his nose and knocks back the shot, allowing time to savor the warmth of the amber liquid dispersing the insatiable fire through his chest.

Now comes the best part of the ritual. He brought the cigar to rest between his teeth, never letting it touch his lips. He strikes a match, touches it to the end of the cigar and draws first breath. He watches as the fire dances on the end of his cigar. He watches the trail of smoke rising up to heaven as a declaration of the burnt offering. With this final sacred acknowlegement he draws the cigar to his lips. First contact was always barely a brush against the half-parted lips. Ah, but the second touch is magic.

It is on second contact that his lips commit to the draw and seem to fuse with the cigar. When the bitter shock of the rum meets the waiting suppleness of whetted lips in that first moment of realization, it almost seems too rough, too garish. As the touch lingers on his lips, what first seemed vulgar now becomes intoxicating, and he is compelled to suck the marrow from it all the more desperately and does so with a moan of satisfaction.

He had known her in the same fashion, and with the same intimacy as this cigar. He had admired her simple, unadorned beauty. He knew the fragrant blossom of her smell. His fingers had traced along her every curvature and drank of the suppleness of her skin. He knew the chime of her voice and had listened to her searching for some indication that she was too good to be true. He had found nothing. He had dressed, and undressed her and he had layed with her. He had tasted her. He had felt her warmth and been inspired by her. There was something unique, something special, something sacred about their union.

He had never smoked around her. She would have thought it was disgusting. She would have said he was killing himself. Now she probably wouldn't care. Now she'd probably save any such worried enteaties for him. He pined for her, but all he had were these cigars in her stead and if he could no longer kiss her, let his mouth be full of hot ash. That was why the ritual. Every time he smoked one he made love to her again. When his lips finally touched a new cigar it was their first kiss once more. She would have said he was killing himself.

Ah, but what a sweet way to go.