Cravings by Mordred
They say that winners never quit, but quitting was the hardest thing Christian had ever attempted. He hated chewing gum, so that was out, the patch didn't do anything unless he put on 5 of then at a time, and there was no way that was an improvement over smoking. Those 0% nicotine vapes only came in the gayest of flavors (what was wrong with gold old menthol?), so cold turkey was his only avenue, and cold turkey fucking sucked.
He had cashed in his vacation time for this, because God forbid he had one of those fucking troglodytes ask him where they could find the canned soup when all they had to do was read the sign over their dumb fucking faces or look 3 feet past him. If he had to hear “If it was a snake it would have bit me” while he was like this, he'd be looking at a murder charge.
At least then, when Tyrone fucked him, he could have a cigarette afterwards guilt free.
All these thoughts raced through his mind, as he sat on his futon, in his dirty apartment, sweating despite the air conditioning, his leg rocking so hard he felt me must be shaking the entire complex, wishing he could die, or go back in time and slap his dipshit 14 year old self, or go back in time farther and kill every single settler in Virginia.
But mostly he just wanted a smoke. Lord above, that's all he wanted.
The state of his house was driving him crazy. He had thought that cleaning would take his mind off things, but every time he tried, he just got irrationally angry and stopped. And that made him even angrier, so he had just stopped trying altogether.
He checked his phone, saw it had only been 20 minutes since he last looked, and threw his phone at the wall hard enough to leave a dent in it. The idea of having to patch it or lose his security deposit almost brought him to tears.
He had to get out of here. Maybe going for the first jog of his adult life would make him feel better. He doubted it, but what choice did he fucking have?
–
As he jogged, he was happy, well maybe not happy; happy seemed very fucking far away, to find it did help just a little. Granted, he had to plan his route to not go near any gas stations, and the sight of the half smoked cigarettes littering the sidewalk and the curbs filled him with longing, but when he got going, his mind felt more free than it had in the last 3 days.
Unfortunately, but not unsurprisingly, smoking for 15 years and spending most of your free time playing video games did not, as it were, leave you with a whole lot of endurance. He collapsed in an exhausted, coughing heap on the first bench he saw in the park next to his apartment building.
He got maybe a quarter of a mile, all told.
So he sat there, arms spread out on the back, head to the sky, chest heaving, mind a grey fog, as opposed to his earlier red, wanting to curl up and die, wanting an end to this horrible life once and for all, when he heard it.
A soft melody drifted toward him on the breeze.
It had been more than a decade since high school band, the very same friends who got him smoking had convinced him that trombones were for “faggots and blacks”. Great group of kids all around. One was in jail for armed robbery, one had been dead for 5 years, and 1 worked at the same grocery store he did, a fate worse than either of those other 2, if you asked Christian most days.
He shook his head to get off that tangent, and turned back toward the sound of the music. He had meant to think that even though it had been a decade since band, he recognized the sound of a flute almost instantly.
It sounded nice.
Really nice.
He turned to face it, or at least where he figured it was coming from. Down the path, toward the center square of Ramsey Park. He listened, and for the first time since he started this little endurance contest, he felt…
Not great, but not bad.
He got up off the bench, and, still a little winded, began walking toward the sound.
–
It was a woman. A pretty woman, Christian thought. She was a slight thing, short and thin, with not much in the way of curves, but her face was pleasant to look at, and her short cut hair was a pretty red. Dyed probably, but who cared?
She was wearing jeans, ripped at the knees, and a green army jacket over a white t-shirt, both of which looked at least 2 sizes too big.
She was standing on the rim of the fountain at the center of the park, her eyes closed as she played that lovely melody, a knapsack on the ground at her left, her open flute case with a couple of bucks in it at her right.
Christian sat down at the bench directly in front of her, and just watched and listened. For the first time in 3 days, the thought of a cigarette left his mind. Everything left his mind, except for the sight of this woman, and the sound of her music.
She saw him sitting and staring at her, but did not stop playing. On the contrary, his presence and interest made her try even harder, and he was brought nearly to tears at the sound of her playing.
When she finally finished, she hopped down, breathing heavily, and much to his surprise, and much to his delight, she walked over to him.
“Did you like it?” She asked, smiling.
Christian didn't trust himself to speak, and instead simply nodded.
“Then how about a couple bucks, handsome?”
He felt himself blushing. When was the last time a girl had called him handsome. After a quick thought, he knew the answer, never.
He reached into his back pocket, and pulled out his wallet, finding it completely devoid of cash. He could see her face sink, but to her credit, she remained smiling.
“Well, then, no charge. Glad you liked it though.”
She gave him a bow, and turned to begin gathering up her things. Christian felt panic clutch him.
“Wait,” he said, causing her to stop and turn back toward him. “I could…run to the ATM if you just wait here a minute.” She smiled, and Christian felt his heart melt. Pretty? No, this girl was beautiful. The most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
“Or…” he began, swallowing so hard he knew she had to have heard it, “I could take you to lunch.”
Never on his life had he ever asked a girl out like that. He had never been good with girls, or really people in general. But he had to try. For some reason, he just had to. His mind was not fixated on getting a smoke, not this time, not today. A rather different, and much more pleasurable craving had struck him, and though it was no less intense, it had to be better.
She thought for a moment, and just when he was sure she'd refuse, which would destroy him so bad, he knew he'd not only buy a pack of Marlboros as soon as she left, but never return to this little park for fear of seeing or hearing her again, she smiled.
“Sure. Sounds nice. Let me get my things.”
Christian stood there in shocked surprise for a moment, before remembering how to be a real human man.
“Let me help you.” He said, and rushed over to do just that.
A moment later, he had her knapsack strung across his shoulder, and she carried her flute case in her hand.
“I'm Michaela by the way.” She said, as they began to walk toward the nearest restaurant.
“Christian,” he said.
They walked in silence, for a few moments, making Christian feel awkward as hell.
“Who wrote that song you were playing?” he asked.
She beamed.
“Oh that? I came up with it myself.”
“Really? It was really good. What's it called?”
She smiled even harder.
“It's called ‘I'm Hungry, I Sure Hope Someone Buys Me Lunch.”
Christian laughed, and felt so damn good for the first time in forever, that when she pulled out a cigarette for herself, offering him one, that he didn't even take it.