The Vice
Rey sat quietly in the living room sofa. Off in a corner, a stand fan hummed an unfamiliar tune, dutifully circulating the stale air. All the lights were off except for a small Morano lamp which threw long, dark shadows against the walls. A cigarette perched precariously between his lips. Rey raised a small flame to the tip and inhaled, turning the tobacco leaves an intense, angry orange.
The Zippo snapped shut with a sharp metallic clink. Pocketing the lighter, he drew another breath and exhaled a stream of smoke. He held the filtered Camel between his index and middle fingers, grayish white smoke rising like a charmed serpent.
His father died two decades ago when Rey was only seven. Lung cancer. Not a pretty picture. His father was a chronic smoker and consumed close to two packs a day. As seasons passed, Arnold Mayer had found it harder and harder to breathe. During his final year, he required a constant supply of oxygen, and it was necessary for him to wear a face mask attached to a portable oxygen tank. He had lost so much weight, he was hardly more than skin and bones, a living corpse.
Rey took a final drag and crushed the remaining stick in an ashtray brimming with ash and cigarette butts. He reached in his pocket for the lighter, lit another stick, and tapped ash in the tray.
He coughed. The fit lasted a few seconds, and he almost dropped the cigarette. When it was over, he cleared his throat and spat blindly in the gloom. Smoker’s cough. He had it big time. He put out the cigarette in the ashtray, laying it to rest among its carcinogenic brethren. His knuckles accidentally brushed against another cigarette butt, and it fell off the table and onto the carpet. It continued rolling as if its intentions were to flee. Finally, it came to rest beside an upturned palm.
The dead hooker stared at him, mouth gaping in a frozen scream. Her eyes were wide and bulging. The left one was bloodshot. The telephone cord he’d used coiled around her neck like black goth necklaces several sizes too small.
Rey stared at her eyes, that expression on her face. With trembling hands, he reached for the Zippo again.
Lung cancer was the least of his worries.
