An O’Brien

When did he sit down?

'Here.' He handed me the cigarette.

'I don't smoke.' My voice was scratchy.

'Because smoking kills? But you're going to die anyway. Why not give it a try?'

This man's voice was just as low, but it had a kind of musical cadence to it, unlike to mom’s didactic one.

It was mellifluous and smooth, like aged wine.

The cap hid most of his face. I could see his chin and his lips, which were thin and curved into a lazy smile. They kind of reminded me of Adam Levine's famous lips.

I pondered what he said and decided that he was right.

YOLO, right?

So I took the cigarette with two fingers like I saw men do in movies.

I stuck the filter into my mouth.

I took a drag. And I coughed immediately.

The nicotine had smelled pleasant enough when it was at a distance. But the chemical was aggressive.

It went straight through my mouth, shot down my throat and attacked my lungs.

My eyes watered. I coughed so hard that my entire body shook.

'Whoa, don't lean forward.' He clasped my wri