After paying for my black and mild I made my way across the street to a bench to have my smoke, The pavement boiling in the hot sun. Descending the steps to the bench I brought out my old lighter, battered and worn with scratches and etchings of the past, I set it onto the bench and began a ritual that I should have long forgotten, gripping the cigarette with thumb and ring finger I tapped the lighting end seven times, just like she used to. A simple act, place the cigarette to my lips and light it, something that gave me an unusual amount of trouble this time. The wind blew out my lighter, the humidity strangled the cigarette, and my own breathing seemed to deprive the flaming stick of tobacco of the oxygen it needed to stay alive. These simple…