Johnny Roach
When I first started smoking, I could have paid for a pack and a lighter with a fiver and gotten change. But when I stopped on the way, I slid a 20 across the gas station counter and didn’t even bother pocketing the rest. I told the clerk to toss it into the need-a-penny cup, but he just left it on the marred plexiglass above the lottery scratchers. I was surprised there was even anyone working, but I guess those minimum-wage managers are the hardest of all asses. On my way out, I saw a box of roses slumped against the ice cream cooler. I grabbed a yellow one because it was the healthiest and turned back to pay, but the clerk waved me off, his eyes dancing between the TV screen on his side of the bulletproof glass and the window on mine. I thought about the look of incredulity on his face the rest of the drive here. I probably had the same look.
As soon as I arrived and was out of my car, I tapped a cigarette into my palm, then fished the lighter —green, like her eyes — out of my pocket. I tried to spark it into life, but the wheel dug into my thumb. The muscle memory was there, but I’d lost the callous.
After a couple grinding spins, I got the cigarette lit and took a hesitant drag. The smoke was dry in my mouth, not at all as refreshing as I’d remembered it. I tried to blow it out smooth and cool like a Joe Camel ad and wound up coughing until I puked on my New Balances. It was almost a relief, like my stomach finally reacted to what was happening and I could stop worrying about when it would. When the heaving subsided and I could stand back up, I lifted the butt back to my lips and pulled deep, filling my lungs in one perverse breath. The headache set in immediately; my brain felt dry and my eyeballs tacky. I’d forgotten how awful smoking was until the nicotine wormed through you, tricking you into thinking you enjoyed it.
I hadn’t smoked since the divorce. Well, since about a year after the divorce, when I decided it was time to stop wallowing and start getting my revenge body, as they say. After all, it was going to be hard to pull someone hotter than Julia if I was still smoking on top of being fat and pushing 50. I never pulled anyone, hotter or not, and now I was even more irritable than usual. But hey, at least my clothes don’t stink any more.
It didn’t take long to find her. I’d thought I’d have to look for her longer, pausing at each body before shaking my head and saying “That’s not her.” But she was the first one. First love. First sex. First corpse.
Looking down at her, I saw that she was as beautiful as ever, all things considered. Her hair was braided, twisted coils of dishwater blonde spilling over a shoulder that was more tan than I remember. She may have even gotten some work done. It’s hard to tell, but her nose may have been different. It was a shame; I’d always liked her nose, even though it was the one thing she was self-conscious about. I’d teased her about it, comparing her to the toucan on our kids’ cereal boxes. In hindsight, it may have been one of the reasons she wanted a divorce. I wiped a little moisture from my cheek; probably saltwater stinging my eyes. I tossed the rose onto her, but it glanced off her breast and rolled to the ground.
Maybe it’s an understatement, but it was too bad she’d died. While she was out there, she could eventually have forgiven me. People would probably have said I should work on forgiving myself, but that just seems like pop psychology designed to sell books with titles like You were right all along: Why your ex is a big stinky poopoo head and your boss can go jump in a lake. Not me. I’m all about ruminating, especially at 2 a.m. when I can’t do anything about it.
I finished the cigarette and flicked the butt into the pit where she was lying. Well, footprint. Footpit? As the cigarette rolled into a puddle next to her ankle and fizzled out, I tapped another one into my palm. I doubted I’d survive long enough to get cancer, or even that yellow patina on my fingertips. Not with monsters about. By chance, her arm was raised when the — what was that Japanese word? Kaiju? — stepped on her, and it looked like she was pointing to the city, which lay smoldering on the horizon.
Johnny Roach is the author of Naan of Your Business. He lives with his children in Marietta, Georgia, USA. You can find him on Bluesky at @johnnyroach.bsky.social.
Featured photo by Cottonbro Studio (Pexels)
