090606 NonSmoker's Perspective

I grew up with it.
When I was seven I accidently dumped a bag of puffed cheetos on the floorboard of the car. I scooped them all back into the back and continued munching. I got a very chewy one and pulled it out, waiting for a street light. It was a cigarette butt. I threw up all over myself, the back of the car, the cheetos. I've never smoked. Never tried it. Never wanted to. Was never tempted.

People'd ask me in High School if I had a lighter, if I smoked. My clothes reeked of it.
I went to Boot Camp and people were dying for one, dreaming of when they could have their first one again. I was told I ran like a smoker.

People drive up to my gate and blow it in my face. The smoke rolls out of their car. They tap their ashes on my boots. They throw their butts out the window in the street, in my lane.

I take a break back at the guard shack, which inside and out smells like the cigarette break the last guard took.

I smell it on my coworkers when load up, and download.

I get in the car to go home, and its fresh and strong, filling the car. My throat burns with how strong it is.

I crawl into bed, my safe place, and its there: on my pillow, in my blanket. Its part of my husband's smell now, in his pores even after a shower, in his longs and therefore his breath even after brushing his teeth. I hold my breath to kiss him, to hug him, you can imagine how hard making love is.

I wake up, and the dog greets me, her fur full of the smell. She was outside with Daddy, her first potty, his first cigarette.

The house smells like it at all times. He smokes outside, but it comes through the open door. When its closed it just comes through on him, in his clothes, his hair, his smell.

I can't escape it at work, so I dream of being at home, but I can't escape it there either. I hate it. And a little, everyone who does it. Everyone.