every cigarette in the world
Afternoon light. The perfect hue of goldorange, sapping away the tremendous heat of the day. Sticky all over the place, sitting on the porch, curled like a cat on the bench. Cigarette smoke trails up to the sky, making loops and rivers and streams in the fading light. Half-lidded eyes watch, dazedly, languidly, testing the smoke against the taste. It doesnt look like citrus, but it smells like it, tastes like it. Red rings slide down the cigarette, turning everything it touches to ash and advancing towards the filter with every intent to burn.
The crickets are just starting, a little at a time, and the birds have just stopped. The sun lies low. Smoke trails up, citrus-smelling. The filter burns. The lighter snaps and another cigarette is lit. Tastes like a cup of black coffee, not in flavor but in feeling.
Nothing to do but try every cigarette on the planet.