“The thing about smoking is, you gotta look cool. Look like you know what you’re doing, and the rest will come.” My brother said with a cool tone. With a flick of his wrist it was back in his mouth, “a sick ecstasy of relief” (Myrer 1968). He didn’t rush any motions, savoring each moment. The warm light from the burning embers cast on his face a haunting glow, illuminating his 5 o’clock shadow. Silver smoke slipped from his rosy lips, its tendrils curling and contorting with the wind. He reached in to his pocket and held out the ratty pack of Marlboros, motioning for me to take a cigarette. I cautiously took one.

The paper stick did not feel foreign. Perhaps that was due to holding my pretzels and crayons between my teeth or smushed between plump child fingers. Occasionally puffing out my cheeks and blowing out hot breath, seeing it vaporize in December air. Or maybe it was from years of imitating my father with his fat cigar, making my voice gruff pretending to tell my sisters to go to their rooms, while swinging on the swing set wondering if I would ever have a wife that could cook as well as my mother.

“Lean in now,” he said ushering me forward. The paper felt thin between my teeth. As my saliva mixed with it, I coughed. It was bitter. He put the lighter up, and flicked the metal with his yellow thumb. The rusty lighter sputtered, spitting out a few weak flames. Then as if all the oil has rushed to the front, the paper was illuminated. He jerked his thumb off the wheel of the lighter. A steady heat ebbed from my fingers. I shakily raised it to my lips and took a shallow inhale. It burnt my lungs like grease on a pan, sizzling my throat. I suppressed a cough, and forced a smile.

“What did it tell you? You already look cooler.” He smiled and clapped me on the back, as I gave a weak smile and I sucked down another lungful.