Waving Not Drowning

He unloaded in her lap. Dumped his secret life all over her. She no longer has the option of ignorance. Ignorance is power. Ignorance allows her to maintain their friendship as is:  uncomplicated, purely platonic. With his hidden self unmasked, she knows too much. It's burdensome. Unfair. She didn't ask for this. It was a cup of coffee, a catch up with a married friend and colleague. Safe. He is committed to someone else. Ring on finger, vows unbroken, kids in strollers, blah, blah, blah. Holden was not going to hit on her. Ever. It had never even crossed her mind. No matter how drunk they got or how heated the conversation. She kept it above board and he followed suit. Hooray for the adult opposite sex friendship. The bomb drops. A series of them. A drone airstrike, completely unforeseen, annihilating the entirety of their experience together. Words transform the air between them. The sky darkens, the barometer rises. Trish is dizzy. Nauseated and off balance, a gravity drop a...

He's smoking again. It slid back into his life so incrementally, so casually he can't pinpoint the exact moment the scales tipped back to the life he left behind. He's off the gluten, off the meat, even managing to get in some running. Well, jogging really. Still, full speed ahead. But the smoking, that's the killer. Literally. It winds it's way into every aspect of his being, who he is, how he feels about himself. He was, is, will always be a smoker. A dry drunk, well, this is the battle with nicotine. The trail of smoke curling out of his nostrils, floating up across his brow, slightly furrowing as his glasses fog over. Ember glowing, crawling up the shaft towards the crook of his index fingers lightly bent, wrist cocked just so. Iconic images of silver screen matinee idols, cowboys, and rebels without causes. Men. Strong, virile, masculine men with Marlboros and Camels and Galouise. Players, DuMaurier, Native Spirit. Rolling papers and west coast bud rolled in wi...