I talked all night to Sofia about wanting to smoke as we ate pasta and drank the house white. And then we went to the Dolphin because you haven’t truly been to Hackney if you’ve never been to the Dolphin. And we drank our pint and Sofia kept talking about wanting to smoke and I think by that point I was pretty much over it but she went and bought a pack of Marlboro Golds anyway because they’re my favourite—well, they were my favourite—and she told me I could smoke if I wanted to. So we went outside to the back garden and I put the cigarette in between my lips and I lit it and inhaled and while it sat between my two fingers, I suddenly felt weird. I thought about how this used to be normal for me and now, because I hadn’t done it in so long, it felt a little strange. It felt strange and natural and comfortable and also not so comfortable too. And I don’t even think I liked it all that much but I finished the cigarette anyway and then I put it out on the floor and threw it in the bin because I was never the type of smoker to litter and I still wouldn’t be now. And I didn’t really think I’d ever feel the need to smoke again but it’s been 6 days since that last cigarette and now here I am again, thinking about it, fantasising about it.
This morning Brad told me he smoked a cigarette last night. He hadn’t smoked in 4 years. “Trying to rekindle my youth or some shit.” And then I started reading a piece of writing about this Swedish girl who also used to smoke and doesn’t anymore. And I read a piece about a time in her life when she did smoke and I remembered my life when I did smoke and sometimes I still think I’d be a little happier if I just really started smoking again. And I genuinely mean it. And now here I am, sitting in this flat, writing about smoking, and thinking about smoking. And I always said I wasn’t addicted, I just liked it, but here I am again, thinking about smoking.