Smoke

You smoke too much, he told me.
Oh, dear, I replied, I don't smoke nearly enough.
I lit another cigarette, the tenth since I've arrived (I count them for personal pleasure), and offer him a drag that he takes.
It's only so you won't at least smoke that bit, he said and I laughed.
We waited. The room's full of smoke, that lovely smoke from my cigarette that smelled just so delicious.
I could smoke until they lungs broke into tiny pieces.
When I laugh, it's the laugh of someone a lot older than me, tired from speaking. That's the gift of the smoke.
Please, stop it, he said.
I can't, I told him, there's no way my thirst will be satisfied with so little.
We waited until they came and told us we could leave. I laughed some more and coughed a bit, for effect. Then we left.
She died later that night, but they still told us we could leave.