Menthol

My knees grew weak I didn’t know how much longer I could hold on, the air felt thin and empty. I reached into my bag for some relief but I was met with empty packaging. I pulled myself up using all my strength, out of bed, out the door and down the street. ‘Dobrey den’ belched the clerk, her soft voice feeling like pins and needles in my ears. I could feel her words bouncing off the walls in my head ‘dobrey den’ I croak, ‘camel blues’ I demand with the last of my strength. She passes me the pack without giving me another look, I pick up the pack. The pack has a woman from the waist down. They had burned the photo around her privates for some unknown metaphor I will never truly understand and I pray I will never have to. ‘Are these menthol?’ I ask and without hesitation she responds sympathetically ‘No, no,’. I hadn’t had a menthol cigarette since I was 12. The little writing on the bottom of this box saying ‘activate’ is making my throat hurt already. But I ignore the warning signs, grab the pack and get on with my day. As soon as I exit the store I tear into the camels, I try to restrain myself until I get around the corner yet I find myself face to face with the clerk only glass separating us as I try to get the cigarette to light in the mid afternoon wind. before I even take a full breathe I’m transported back, to that chinese restaurant ‘Lavender’ at 12 on the side of the building next to the trash, smoking my grandmas menthol Virginia slims, coughing every two seconds but still trying because I desperately wanted to be included in something even if it would kill me. And here I stand again trying to prove to myself I have changed, and failing. I am who I am and I am who I was. Those people are the same and that small insecure 12 year old is still there some where. She tells me she’s proud of me and I tell her I’m disappointed to see what she’s become.