Divine Smoker

Divine Smoker
by Falling Ashes

I walked into my local watering hole and sidled up to the bar.  The barmaid
Jen gives me a nod and serves up "the usual."  Like a lot of bars, this one
is frequented by female smokers.  There are the social smokers, who puff
lightly and look like they would rather be holding a dead skunk.  There are
the regular smokers: the pack-a-day chicks who always say things like "I
really need to quit."  And there are the heavy smokers, the ones for which
two packs a day is hardly enough.  The heavy smokers tend to be older,
perhaps recently divorced (and horny), or maybe even widowed.  I am not
attracted to any of these types.  The first two examples might as well not
smoke, and the third is, let's face it, not always terribly attractive.  I
am looking for a woman who is increasingly hard to find in this day and age:
A young (mid-to-late twenties), unapologetic chain-smoker.   A woman who
relishes every cigarette like it's the last one on earth.  A woman who
freaks out if she's getting CLOSE to running out of her beloved smokes.  A
woman who inhales deeply, perhaps two or three times before exhaling.  Who
exhales plumes of thick smoke through her mouth and nostrils, perhaps even
while dangling.  A woman who doesn't excuse herself, or ask permission to
smoke.  Who ashes wherever she damn well pleases.  Who is lighting up a new
cigarette within seconds of stubbing out her last one or, even better,
lighting a new one with the smoldering, misshapen butt of her previous
cigarette.  Yes, misshapen, because she inhales so deeply, sucks so hard,
that her cigarette couldn't possibly retain its cylindrical shape.  A butt
with teeth marks and saliva and stained so brown that it couldn't have
possibly been white when she started.  A butt smoked right down to the
filter.  A filter that won't extinguish because it burns so hot with its
long, rock solid cherry.  Now this is in a bar, mind you, but I want a woman
who smokes like this ALL THE TIME.  Who keeps at least five packs in her
oversized purse in addition to a couple of packs in the car and some extra
cartons at home.  A woman whose life is controlled and enhanced by her
smoking.  Who rarely cleans her ashtrays at home, or in the car.  She'll
just stub out her spent cigarettes on top of a big pile of equally short
butts.  A woman who is not afraid to smoke unfiltered cigarettes, or actually
might prefer them.  Who, with every spoken word wafts out curls of smoke.  A
woman who can smoke an entire cigarette without removing it from her mouth.
A woman who knows all the tricks:  rings, frenches, snap inhales, the works.
And knows she looks good performing them.  Here's the catch:  she also has
to be supremely attractive.  See what I mean?  Not exactly your
garden-variety woman.  Do women like this still exist?  Certainly there has
to be some.  In my town.  Yeah, right.  As I resign myself to the fact that I
will never meet such a woman, SHE walks in.  A stunning brunette with a
pretty sundress, fishnets and knee-high lace-up boots with a Marlboro Red
dangling from her lips.  Her dangling style isn't trashy at all.  She looks
sophisticated and charming.  Could this be the one?

She sits down at the opposite end of the bar and orders a drink through
clenched teeth.  Not only does she not remove her cigarette from her lips,
but she is constantly inhaling while exhaling through her nostrils.  She
received her cocktail and, this is where I lost it, took a sip from the straw
while still dangling.  She finally removed her Red and, in a lightning-quick
motion, pulled a new one out of a pack (I say a pack because she clearly had
several in her purse), stuffed it in her mouth and - oh my god - lit it
with the old butt.  However, she was not finished with the old one:  she did
a gargantuan triple-pump on it before crushing it out.  This is the woman
I've been waiting for:  the girl of my dreams.

Trying to contain myself, I ask Jen if she knows this beautiful creature.
She doesn't, but offers to send a drink over on my behalf.  Being a regular
has its perks.  The barmaid delivers the drink and actually chats with Dream
Girl for a bit.  Jen walks back to me with a smile on her face.  "Her name
is Davinia and she would like to meet you."  I stutter out "Davinia?
You're kidding right?  I would love to meet her."  I make eye contact with
the divine miss Davinia.  She smiles and, cigarette in hand, waves.  She puts
the Marlboro back in her mouth, collects her purse, cellphone, and the
two-and-a-half packs of smokes she has on the bar, and gets up.  Oh, man,
she's walking over towards me.  How will I ever compose myself?  She sits
down next to me, smoldering butt in her mouth, extracted a new cigarette and,
of course, lights it with the previous one.  All the while she was making eye
contact with me.  She takes a quick drag off of the old one and stubs it out,
keeping the new one between her lips.  She rolls the cigarette around in her
mouth until it is between her lovely, yellow teeth and extends a hand "Hi,
I'm Davinia."  I tell her my name and we shake.  Noticing that I'm a
non-smoker, she says "I hope you don't mind smoking `cuz I sure as hell
don't."  "Absolutely not, smoke all you want." Oh god, that was cheesy.
She replied, "Good, get used to it." and smiled.  She took a
cheek-hollowing, lung-collapsing drag for at least thirty seconds, then
expelled the largest, most pungent cloud of billowing smoke I had ever seen,
directly into my face.  She was testing me.  Seeing if a non-smoker could
tolerate such a voracious chain-smoker.  Let's just say I passed.  Even a
rabid anti-smoker would have been attracted to her.  She was that gorgeous.
And her smoking came so naturally it was as though she were born to it.  Like
she had no choice but to be a rabid nicotine addict. 

We chatted for hours.  She smoked cigarette after cigarette at a furious
pace, rarely pausing for air.  She was immensely likeable, and very
intelligent.  How could such a smart person be such a slave to tobacco, I
kept wondering.  But the answer was so obvious:  Davinia absolutely loved
smoking.  She loved the taste, the effect, the ritual, the feeling, the
smell.  She was completely at ease with her cigarettes and her choice to
smoke them.  And she would never, ever, quit.  Sure, she was aware of the
consequences of smoking, but just shrugged them off as if to say nothing will
ever come between me and my cigarettes; not you, not anybody, not anything.
And I loved her for it.  We really hit it off, sharing many common interests
and a similar background.  Through it all, she always had a cigarette going.
When going to the restroom, picking songs on a jukebox, I mean always.  There
was not a single split second in which she did not have a lit cigarette
either in her hands or mouth.  Very rarely would Davinia let her Marlboro
just sit and burn.  She was almost constantly dragging, with an occasional
pause for a spirited exhale. Usually, she would just talk out the smoke.  A
truly amazing performance. 

It was getting late and she was about to finish her third pack of cigarettes
since I had first seen her.  Although I knew for a fact that she had at least
two more packs in her purse, she said she needed to get some more from her
car.  She asked if I could escort her.  I took that as a cue to sign out my
tab.   We get to her car and she opened the door.  A tobacco smell like you
can't imagine wafted out.  Her ashtray was overflowing with butts and she
had been using her cupholders as ashtrays as well.  Similarly, they were
overflowing, as were several cups and boxes lying around her car.  Her
windows were covered with a yellow film, as if she had never even thought of
cracking one open when she was smoking (which was, apparently, always).  She
turned to face me and pulled the cigarette from her mouth and, with a
luscious exhale, leaned in to kiss me.  I responded in kind.  Yes, it was
getting late.  It was time to go home.  Together.

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