A Quiet Smoke

It was a lonely morning. The sun had barely caressed the sky, and the small city was still asleep. But there on the street, a cigarette between dry lips and heavy boots being dragged over the same pavement as the mornings before, was a man walking his beloved dog. It was quiet. If not for the gentle crackle of the cigarette and the heavy sigh of the man, soft smoke mixing with the morning fog, or the frequent scraping of the leash kissing the asphalt, the man was close to believing that time had truly stopped at last. The fog caused the world to seem frozen, yet the man continued wandering, letting routine carry him the right way. With slumped shoulders and glazed eyes – dull enough to erase the ocean blue that once flushed with life and make them appear grey instead – the fog, the noise of the leash, nothing seemed to matter to him except his lifelong companion. Yes, a lonely morning indeed.

The dog had apparently not noticed that everything had gone still, sniffing the same bush as the day before, marking the same streetlight as its territory but not making a single noise. The man found it odd. It was an old dog, a friendly one, one to be trusted though big, for it always obliged if told no but however little the man muttered, the dog always spoke its mind, so it was weird that the owner’s ears had yet to pick up a bark, not even a whimper. He noticed but said nothing. Soon, the dog turned a corner, knowing the route all too well and stopping when they reached the bench with chipped paint and loose screws overlooking a small pond. The man was perplexed to sit down, something evidently holding him back, so he wound up standing there, looking at it, trying to grasp hold of the feelings he felt back in the days when his dog was a little puppy and they went on their first walk together, taking a short break right there on that same bench. Back then the bench was nearly brand new; it looked nothing like it did now. In his memory his cheeks were burning from how broadly he smiled when petting his new friend jumping up and down in joy and the reflection of them in the pond was one of a laughing man and excited pup. Looking at the water now, the man saw a figure, but the morning fog made the picture unclear and made it look almost as if the man was frowning. A dissatisfied grunt escaped his lips alongside a cloud of smoke. Every day the man felt greater dislike towards the memory, for with each day that passed the further he seemed from catching hold of those emotions that once flowed freely in his eyes. To him, he was sure that every ocean would empty of water, it was only a question of when, seeing that his had drained, not just of the beautiful crystal blue water but of the life that had lived within it too.

Now that the city was sleeping, he thought about who he was when no one was watching. He doubted he was anything really. Like air, he was merely there, as if no one could see him. Even as he looked at his own reflection, he could not recognize himself. Perhaps, it was simply that no one knew him. Not even himself. Despite all that he did not care. Nothing appeared to hold any meaning to him.

Still, he could not let go of the memory, how his reflection looked completely off, and it made him wonder if his memories, like his emotions, had abandoned him. They felt fake. Which was lying? The memory or the reflection staring back at him? One told the story of a joyful life, the other told one of a lonely life. Which one, he wondered, was his own?

All that doubt faded with his reflection as the dog jumped in the water, happy and carefree, but the man was overwhelmed with sudden worry as he did not intend to lose his dear friend, calling it up from the pond in a hurry. The loyal dog listened but made sure to look at its owner with extra big and sad eyes. The man had no mercy, but his heart calmed by the sight of it safe and sound on land again. As soon as the dog shook itself dry, they carried on with their walk, letting silence fill the chill air, once again only bothered by the scraping of the leash against the ground like an old echo that followed the man wherever he went. A reminder of everything he had lost. Before him, the street stretched ahead, pale and waiting. No movement. Not even a breeze rustling the leaves. His steps, the hiss of the cigarette, the dog’s faint breathing. Nothing else seemed to be awake, everything sounding dead. Even the birds were late today. A crack in the pavement caught the attention of the dog and the man took the time to take a long final drag of his cigarette. It tasted like tobacco and badly burned toast; he had never liked the taste. But the crackle steadied him, and the exhale left his chest a little lighter, the smoke warming his cold heart. His wife had asked him to quit, said it was bad for his health. He lit another anyway.

A flower was growing out of the crack and the dog was seemingly very interested in it. It was a pretty flower. One the man was sure that his wife would appreciate, so he bent down to pick it up. His knees hurt and cried out, but he would go through any pain to put a smile on his wife’s face. Especially now that her health had bedridden her. Oh, there was no greater pain than watching her eyes drain of life! She used to be so full of joy, except when it came to his smoking, then she would be a real pain in the ass. He recalled how she would stand in the doorway, arms crossed and patiently waiting, when he got home from his morning walk with the dog. She would have this look on her face, he wasn’t sure how to describe it but it dauntedly made his skin crawl – maybe it was the look his own mother used to send him when he had disappointed her but that was so long ago, he doubtfully remembered. He was certain she could smell that he had been out smoking but she never said a word, only looked at him in that certain way.

The flower’s stem felt rough between his thumb and pointer finger, a harsh texture that was the complete opposite feel of the petals. Those were as soft as his wife’s hair, and he gently caressed it like he did her hair when she was in bed feeling especially sick. A puff of smoke intervened with his thoughts and pulled him back to the present where they continued down the road. The dog knew its owner well enough to stop before a small, white house and the man pulled up his sleeve to check the clock. At any moment now the lights should turn on inside the windows. Sure enough, they did and together they observed the couple moving around the house in a frenzy, already stressing over the smallest of things from the moment they opened their eyes. The man found it quite ridiculous. How everyone stressed and hurried by made him confident that a whole year or two could pass by their noses without them even noticing. Of course, he had been no different back when he was young and stupid. However, that all changed when he married the love of his life and they got a little puppy together.

The man was critical at heart. Or was it that he simply did not understand other people? He did not get why most (like this couple) needed coffee to function properly. Only after a sip of the hot poison could the mother wake up her daughter for school; likewise, did the father drink his cup of coffee and go to work without eating breakfast! The man supposed coffee to them was like cigarettes to him. If he had not his breaks from life with a quick smoke, how else would he keep from going mad? His wife’s constant nagging did nothing to help at all.

An early bird was passing by with her dog in tow, greeting the man good morning: yet another thing he could not wrap his head around. It was too early for anything “good” to have happened so like the rest who said “good morning” he thought the woman walking that long dog with too short legs, a liar and grumbled a “’morning” in return as their dogs curiously danced in a circle, sniffing each other’s hindquarters like it was the height of canine etiquette. Before long, they were walking again but he could not let go of the woman’s expression. It was one of confusion and worry tightly wrapped behind a thin smile and it seemed to further deepen the winkles between his brows. His wife only ever looked at him like that when he suddenly started coughing a lot, making her worried but she knew she could do nothing to help as he had no plans to quit smoking. What he did not understand was why a stranger looked at him that way. Especially his dog. She had this weird look on her face when looking at his dog. What a weird lady, the man thought to himself.

The dog was the one leading the way home but instead of walking forward it turned right and headed towards the gate of the cemetery. Confused, the man simply opened the creaking gate and followed the dog inside. The gravel muffled his hesitant footsteps until the dog stopped before a grave. At first, he did not get it. He didn’t understand at all. Why would his dog lead him to the graveyard? Why would it stop before this grave? Why was the name written on the stone the exact same as his wife’s? The exact same birthday… What was most confusing to him was that according to the stone, she had died fifteen years ago. But then he noticed another stone right beside the other, a smaller one. It had his dog’s name written on it. When he went to look at his dog, the leash was dangling from his hand – no one there. He looked at the flower in his other hand, brought it to his nose and smelled it, remembered that his wife smelt just the same and as he placed the flower on top of her grave his heart crumbled with the forgotten memories. His cigarette had burned down. But he did not weep. For his ocean eyes had dried long ago. He simply lit another.