Cigarettes

My landlady stands in the doorway, one hand braced on the jamb, breathless from climbing the two flights of stairs to my room. She’s come up to bum a cigarette. It’s the same old story. Her doctor convinces her to kick the habit, scares the shit out of her, sends her home full of virtuous resolve. All she can talk about for the rest of the day is how she’s finally quit smoking, how this time she really means it. Next morning, stepping into the kitchen, the first thing I see is her coffee cup on the counter, a couple of soggy butts disintegrating in the saucer. “It’s not worth it,” she says. “Next time I decide to stop, you need to tell me it’s not worth it.” I know how she feels, so I refrain from wisecracks and just hand her one. She lights it, takes a long drag, and...