Buena Mano

He lit a cigarette.

He huffed ineptly as he pondered on the reality of what just happened. He was reeling in a whirlwind of emotions. He felt violated. He felt defeated. He felt infinite.

In that little nook he temporarily claimed as his own, he watched the passersby in all their hurried frenzy. It was one in the morning. "If they knew," he mumbled, "they would upchuck their latest refections." Metaphorically, perhaps; but life has never been fond of metaphors. This truth just dawned on him.

He shuddered from the cold. The clandestine memory of the past hour remains lingering in the dusty clouds of the glaring street lights. He puffed a pillar of smoke--questioning, uncertain. He puffed yet another, and another, and another. He felt relieved. He is desperate to cleanse himself.

He was groping for answers to unfounded questions. Some of them would send in a suggestive throe, but would fade as quickly as the cigarette smoke would blend into the misty air.

He looked at the time. He must go home.

The cigarette stick was almost used up. He glanced at the glowing cancer stick in between his digits--his first in his entire life. He would normally keep firsts as mementos, but this one doesn't seem to be of great sentimental value ... or of any value, for that matter.

He stifled a cough. It must be the smoke working its way into the system. He threw the stick as far as his might could muster. He walked on and never looked back.

Postscript.

The path was suddenly unfamiliar, and he knew he was traversing a perilous territory. It was long walk and he was already tuckered out. He felt that he could use another cigarette stick.

And out of nowhere, he conjured an entire box by the second flexure down the road.

He lit a cigarette, and he was off.