The outstretched hand

The cigarettes were hers. She'd bought them on a night out, passed them over between kisses and told him to ration her. It felt like an outstretched hand, an invitation to influence, to help her become better. She was quitting. Or so she said. But it was harder with drinks on the cards, so she'd folded and bought a pack in the first Tesco they passed. 

 

No more than three. Maybe five, actually. Or six? No, you're right, let's say five. Unless I'm desperate.

 

He took the pack home with him, six cigarettes lighter, custodian of the rest until next time. Slipped them into his sock drawer where they couldn't tempt him. 

Three weeks before he saw her again. The cigarettes stayed at home, tucked up tight, forgotten in the frustration of long silences and last minute cancelled plans. He apologised, half-hearted. 

It's fine. I bought a pouch and rolled a dozen for tonight. 

 

Quitting going well then?

 

Shut up. It's easier said than done. Just don't let me roll any more.

As if he could step in and stop her, winch her arms up her back and hold her still until today passed into tomorrow and whatever number she allowed herself reset. The outstretched hand had dropped its invitation, picked up an indictment somewhere along the way. Always somebody else's fault, somebody else's flaw, somebody else's to fix.

It was a cold night. He kept his hands in his pockets. The outstretched hand was gone. He didn't ask for it back. 

How's the smoking going? 

 

He could hear the shrug through the phone. 

 

Not great. I've had a lot going on though, so.

 

He might've asked what kind of things. A friend should want to know. Or at least pretend to, out of love or obligation. He hummed a nothing sound instead. 

 

I'll reply properly later, she messaged a week ago. It didn't preoccupy him anymore. There was that, at least. Whatever was there had broken and the sadness was more about the pattern and having to start again with someone else than it was about her. Selfish, perhaps, but human. He found the cigarette packet at the back of the drawer when he was putting away socks. Seemed a waste to throw them away. Would she want them back? Did she even remember he had them? Did he exist for her outside of dreamy nights by the docks with whisky and confessions on their lips? Only she could say and she hadn't said much of anything in a while. 

He lit up on the doorstep. They'd shared one there months before on a warmer night than this. He tucked his fingers into his armpit, no outstretched hand to pull him close, to feel the chill on his skin and rub at it. It was easier said than done to resist the temptation, he had to give her that. But some things were easier done than said. The taste of tobacco on his tongue, the pursed lips, the warmed hand. Not quite a memory, but something close.