My July Post

He opened the matchbook and looked at the matches. They looked like an old man's teeth—evenly spaced, the last row kept carefully intact, with gaps between each. He tore off the end-most match and struck it, holding the head down to let the flame climb toward his thumb. As the smoke reached for his face he breathed out through his nose, hoping to avoid the acrid scent of burning sulfur. But his breath is short, and he never avoids the burn. (This time was no different.) When he could feel the heat, he flicked his wrist, pulling the match downward, extinguishing it. And there it was—the perfect smoke ring. It curled and writhed, twisting around itself in a sinewy circle, expanding but not breaking. His reaction was disproportionate, inappropriate even, but for that moment he experienced a rapture of a kind that only comes from the simple, yet unexpected.

Throwing the match away, he immediately tore off the next. He couldn't help himself—doing it right made him want to do it again. But he knew that twice in a row never happens.