Smoke

Chris knew this place. He always knows these places.

It was late last night, and we were wandering the West Village after watching the Celtics fall apart in game six. The air inside was thick with the smell of cigars and cigarettes. I ordered a scotch because it seemed like the sort of thing one was expected to drink in a place like this and we found some space in the back to reminisce about Tweet and the nooks she always found to hold her candy.

"I wonder how they get away with smoking in here?" Chris mused as he sipped his boxcar.

"They probably wouldn't tell us if we asked," I replied as I pulled out my pen and paper.

On the other side of Chris's head was a row of lamps I couldn't see. "Why didn't you draw the lamps?" Chris asked. "They're my favorite thing about this place."

The waitress brought us another drink, I turned the page and watched the smoke curl around the lampshades like a past that was no more.