number twenty nine: camel blues

There’s something comforting about the smell of cigarette smoke on flannel.

Usually, the smell of my habit on my clothes disgusts me. It makes me feel dirty and grungy, but not in the hip Seattle way. I’m self-conscious of the way my hair and hands smell and mouth tastes after even a single drag. I can’t get to my bathroom fast enough to wash my hands and convince myself that a spritz of perfume covers the lingering scent. I know it’s not enough, and I know that while living at home my cover-up was less than successful with my parents.

They knew I’d picked up the habit, sneaking drags while they were asleep, hiding the butts in a hallowed out bit of tree in the front yard. They hate my habit, as do most of my other friends. Some have embraced it and have stopped nagging me, some have even picked up the nasty habit the same way I did. I hate myself for that, because there’s a chance they won’t ever be able to quit. I know I’ll quit. I tell people all the time I’m trying to. At first they believed me, encouraged me, were disappointed when they caught me outside fumbling with a lighter. These days, there’s none of that. They know that I’m not ready to give up my longest and arguably healthiest relationship.

I’ve quit once, for a man I pegged with forever. When forever ended, my camels were there to dry my tears.

months back, I gave my lungs a break. I ended up pressed against a doorway with a man, and his leather jacket smelled like my habit. And it was intoxicating, so much more appealing than the bottle of Light Blue I bought forever for Christmas. With his cigarette still lit in one hand and his other tangled in my herbal-essences-drenched hair, the smell of stale smoke was perfect. the kiss lasted a moment, as did my habit's pause.

The faint reminisces of last night’s pack is lingering on the flannel I’m draped in. and there’s something comforting there. It smells like home: Familiar, constant. A home that I know I will happily someday leave.