Waving Not Drowning

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...

I need you to listen. Lean in, that's right. Real close. I want you to feel my breath on your cheek, the heat from my exhale flooding your face with microscopic drops of moisture. That close, alright?Uncomfortably so. Because I do not want to raise my voice, you see? I want to speak slowly and quietly in order to impress upon you the importance of what it is I have to say. The profound nature of what it is I have to share with you, my friend. That is what we are, are we not? Friends. Close, intimate friends. I trust you with my life, this you understand in your soul, I know this. So right now, right this very second, I need you to hear me. To aurally comprehend the communication I am having with you. Put that cigarette down. It's a filthy habit and makes you weak. That's right, weak. You heard me. I love you, my friend but you are slowly, deliberately and recklessly poisoning yourself and all those around you. I will no longer tolerate it. Not around me, nor in my house, on...