Monologue of Deceit

Rolling your own cigarettes is a leisure all its own. The incense of dry tobacco engulfs your nasal cavity, addicting as it is. Yet, once you look past the lengthy scroll of side effects, you’re almost able to enjoy yourself. Almost.
I’d trouble you for a light, but then you would know I were listening.
Eavesdropping. A game at which I’ve made my living. Only a bit of harmless fun, I’ll light it myself, singeing my fingernails. And admittedly, out of my own jealousy I’ll do this. I’ll take a few adequate puffs, and begin to tell the joke. I’ll cough at the nape of your neck.
“Ahem.” So that you recognize my presence.
You jostle, slightly annoyed. By now you know me so well we are practically family. I only smile at your pique.
My greased sandy hair is a makeshift poker face. Nonchalantly reclined behind you, knocking at your seat with a couple of worn black sneakers. I wouldn’t mean to hurt you, just irritate you. Itch at your conscience.
I’d like not to be such a control freak. I’d like to spend the days making something of myself. But you know you need me. You rely on me.
Oh, yes. You will be sitting there, in the wake of court. A casual conversation at best, seemingly nothing could go wrong.
And then, they attack. Oh dear me, if only they had not asked. And it is never a repeated offense. The questions do vary.
“Where were you?”
“How are you?”
To the former which you would consequently reply, “Home.”
As well as to the latter, which you would then answer simply “Good.”
Both of which are lies.