There’s something to be said for that first cigarette after going without for so long. You realize the things that you usually take for granted: the feel between the fingers, how it sits between your lips, the smell of the initial burn, the long, slow inhale and soothing sensation as it rolls down the back of your throat and into your lungs, a cloud of softness comforting your nerves as it runs out your chest and through your arms and legs, spreading out and settling down.
For a moment, one blissful moment, it’s like meditating. The all encompassing ohm. It makes you wonder what all the fuss is about.
It only takes a shorter moment spent with a woman thrashing in your backseat, screaming as she claws at her arms to wretch out the poison that tears through her veins, that burns at her organs, the frothing of her mouth, the groan and snaps of her joints that spasm at unnatural angles, all in response to a voluntarily injected substance, to remind you that the same thing that drives her back to this point at least twice a month is the same thing that makes that cigarette seem so damn good.
Addiction is a hell of a way to live.