The flip was part of the ritual.
With about a quarter of the cigarette left, he’d lean back against the birch tree and flick the menthol into the gravel behind the garage.
Nick started smoking menthols because that was what Kristy Wainwright smoked when they were fifteen.
He kissed Kristy’s hand once, thought it was chivalrous, seemed to remember he could smell the menthol on her fingers.
Annette was forty-seven, had started to wear too much fragrance. Nick thought it was a strange response to aging, along with going to bed earlier. They didn’t argue about crossword clues late at night like they used to. Nick had loved that. Another ritual.
He was forty-five now, telling himself that not smoking that last quarter of the cigarette was prolonging his life
There was still some kid in him, and that kid loved to watch the Hemi orange hots of the smoke flip end over end.
Squinting, he focused on the neon trails of the butt, like some carcinogenic firework and he was the only one in the crowd to oooh and ahhh.
The butt landed in the middle of his white gravel, somewhere between utilitarian and decorative. It was on sale, Nick probably still had the receipt, he was like that.
He liked to watch the hot burn itself out before he walked inside, just to make sure.
Watching it go dark was part of the ritual too.
He walked closer. Maybe it was time for a new bag of white gravel behind the garage. Wondered how much of it the Yandmans could see from their new deck.
Substack won’t let free subscribers comment on previews. If you’d like to comment email me at detroitsandwichfest@gmail.com
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Jimmy Doom's Roulette Weal to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.