Pests

"Pack of Djarum blacks." Kat hands the boy twenty dollars. It’s been almost fifteen years since she'd stopped smoking, and although she’s certain the price has gone up substantially, she has no real concept of how much a pack of cigarettes costs these days. In fact, in this moment, the only reference for buying them is a faded memory that reminds her they used to be five dollars a pack when she started. The real kicker though is remembering when the price broke the ten dollar mark and she could still buy cigarettes at the pharmacy near her apartment.

The boy looks like he could be no more than sixteen, but must be older. Must be. He takes a few coins from the little tray by the cash, and doesn't hand her back any change. "Thanks," she says as she begins to turn away. "Oh…matches?" The boy hands her a small package of complimentary matches—that, at least, hasn't changed. She can feel his eyes on her as she struggles to push the heavily iced door open, making a screeching metal on metal sound.

Kat doesn’t wait to turn the corner before striking her first match. She sought to prove to this young chap that she was indeed a seasoned smoker, a stylish badass, so she's lighting up directly in view of the counter, with the back of her ponytail lit primarily by the yellow store front sign.

Clove cigarettes are what turned her on to smoking in the first place, so it feels fitting that it be what brings her back to the habit. Actually, she’s not sure she wants it to be a habit again—she just wants something. Anything. Kat is desperate to feel the sting in her lungs, the pasty numbness in her mouth, and the dizzying high that comes with that first inhale.

"Fucking fuck," she murmurs. She is on her fourth or fifth match, so she retreats around the corner where it’s less windy, but away from her audience. Like some unbothered city pigeon, Kat scurries shamelessly into the alley and her heels clack and echo off the steel siding.