Every time he thinks, his third eye blinks - Victor Vaughn ‘Fall Back/Titty Fat’

The car following me is staying far enough back that I can’t make out anyone inside. The lack of flash or hub caps on the plain steel wheels screams either “municipal employee” or “street thug gunship bought at auction”. Almost nobody else drives American anymore. I haven’t done anything that would warrant the attention of either of those groups recently, but they’ve been on my ass since ten AM so I don’t think it’s just a happy coincidence. Can’t really let it worry me, I have shit to do, and if they haven’t shot me in 4 hours it means they’re waiting to make contact when they feel like they’re in charge. I duck into the diner, and the beat up woman smoking out front grunts up a phlegmball and stubs out her smoke on the windowsill. She follows me over to the table and sets down a menu. I catch only impressions of her, distracted by the tail. Lola, wrinkles, hairnet.

“Coffee?”

It’s an almost automatic response, but I remember I’m trying to cut down.

“Just some juice, and I want the eggs and toast. Scrambled and wheat.”, hand the menu back.

“Be right up.”

I check the corner of the window to make sure my buddies in the car are still out there. My juice appears on the edge of the table, and I take a sip. There’s a paper stuffed next to the napkinholder but the stories in it aren’t interesting. They’re just depressing. More dead, more stolen, more broken, more betrayed. And the sports page, which would be interesting only if I gave a damn about the men and women who play games for a living. I fold it back up and stuff it back behind the napkinholder and subconsciously reach for a pack of cigarettes in my breast pocket.

I can almost feel the edges of the pack. Hear the crinkle of the cellophane and foil, a glistening corner still attached to the torn open hole. My attention wanders from the majestic looking logo on the seal to the filter paper gently sticking to my lips and the nutty, dusty smell before I click my lighter. Sccchk! A golden flame comes up, with that faint smell of butane and I puff, a warm flood of rich smoke smothers my tongue. The paper is pulled gently from my lips and I inhale. I can feel it bathing my delicate pink alveoli in rich, luxurious smoke. A hot riot of chemicals floods my blood and rushes towards my brain. The hay and molasses smell of the smoldering butt in my right hand, while the left gently pats my pack and lighter back into the pocket. I exhale and a blue plume of smoke and stress and worry just stream out of my mouth and nose and rise up toward the dingy light above the table, ringing it in a halo of diffuse yellow light.

I shake off the daydream when the waitress with my eggs and toast on a plate, drops it next to the juice. I am a little distressed to see that my now clammy left hand hasn’t left my empty pocket. The cost of kicking the habit, I guess. These days I couldn’t smoke in here anyways, I’d have to go join Lola outside, and even then we’d probably get a ticket. Last time I bummed a cigarette and tried it I coughed so hard I nearly threw up, the memory draws up a bit of bile in the back of my throat. I idly stir my juice with a straw and pretend it’s coffee and cream. The eggs are pretty good, the toast is cardboard with aerosol cooking spray. This whole breakfast for dinner adventure has lost some of its charm.

To be continued.