Chain Smoker

The bus stop was surprisingly empty. It’s only me and a man, who’s smoking at the far end of the bench. I wonder if he is homeless, so many of them use the benches at the bus stop to sleep when the sun fades behind the mountains, but his clothes are relatively clean and his hair is washed and combed. He even smells sweet, like vanilla and coffee. I’m trying to do my best to ignore the stench from his cigarette as I sit at the opposite end.

The night air is brisk, giving me a chill from the sweat marks drying against my skin. Work had been hard and all I want to do is go home, eat the rest of the contents of my fridge then crawl under the sheets. I just need to make it home. The damn bus needs to hurry. It seems like it arrives later and later every night.

“You waiting for the bus?”

His voice startled me. Usually no one talks at the bus stop, and I prefer it that way. I nodded in response, and start digging through my bag for my earphones, hoping they will deter him from asking anything else. I can’t find them. And he is looking my way again. I don’t like the way the moonlight is glinting off of his canines. They are so large they are almost fangs, dripping from his wolfish smile.

He held out his hand to me, offering me a smoke from his near empty pack. I shake my head no and his smile grows. For added effect, I coughed, letting him know I don’t like the smoke he is blowing towards me.

He only slid closer. “You probably never smoked before.”

I watched the street intently, hoping that the bus would show up. There was no movement on the street or anywhere around us and I suddenly became aware that I am all alone with this weirdo.

Shit. My heart started racing. I am not going to show him I’m nervous. I try to stay calm. The bus will come soon.

“No, I can tell. You’ve never smoked before. I’d be surprised if you’ve ever had a drink either. You look soft.”

Don’t answer him – don’t let him know he is getting to you. Treat him like every other crazy you pass on the street.

He chuckled.

I am sure he can tell how uncomfortable I am.

“There’s nothing wrong with being soft, darling. Women are supposed to be. And you look soft in all the right places.”

The way his voice drawled sent shivers up my spine.

I chance a glance at him. He is closer, that Cheshire grin still firmly in place. “You don’t know this since you don’t smoke, but putting out a cigarette is a lot like extinguishing a life.”

I couldn’t help but look at him. If I thought I could run without him grabbing hold of me, I would, but he is too close. All he has to do is reach out. I freeze, watching him take a long drag from his cigarette.

“You can throw it in a puddle of water and listen to it sizzle as it dies. But that's relatively fast – the light goes out to quickly and all of the fun goes with it. You could smash it under your heel, aggressively and slowly, leaving nothing but a stain on the pavement.” He shrugs and I can’t peel my eyes away from his dark eyes, the angular cut of his jaw and the way his lips wrap around the butt of his smoke. He laughed softly, “That’s a messy way to go.” He pulls another drag, blowing the gray cloud out, aimed at her.

Why can’t I look away? Why can’t I run? I feel almost hypnotized by him, and yet, if I take my eyes off of him, he could attack.

“You could always flick it to the dirt and watch the body bounce, the red hot cherry will spark its last life and explode into scattering pieces. Almost like a little firework.” His hand snaked over my knee and he clamped down hard. There’s a circular tattoo under his thumb. My lungs hurt too much to scream.

“The best one, I find, is to smother it. Push its face down against the curb and hold it there until air no longer reaches it. It’s perfect agony watching it smolder out of existence, waiting until the last bit of life dulls to gray. I guess you could say cigarettes are a lot like people in that they don't get to choose their fate, they just have to accept it like everybody else. Would you turn to gray if I held you long enough? Or would you burn for me?”

As if making his point, he squeezed the tip of his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger and I couldn’t help but cringe, his other hand skimming further up my thigh.

Rubber wheels squealed and lights turned onto the street. I wouldn’t have noticed except that I could finally see his whole face. He was attractive with dark hair and a subtle five o’clock shadow. He could have been a model who walked off the page of a magazine. Instead, he is out here, scaring the crap out of me. The bus stops just feet from me and I don’t think, I run. The moment I pass through the doors and get a few feet inside, I turn to see if he has followed, but he hasn’t. He is still sitting on that bench, lighting another smoke between his curved lips. I can’t breathe until the bus moves.

I feel like crying, like my lungs are going to explode.

What would he have done to me if the bus hadn’t shown, or if it had taken another five minutes? My leg burns where he grabbed me. The worst part, the part that makes me think I need a shower when I get home, is that I actually found him attractive when the bus lights hit him. He is gorgeous. But that face is hiding a monster, one I would have seen if the bus hadn’t come when it did. I don’t think I’ll ever look at a cigarette the same way ever again.