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I hold my savior, a skinny tube filled with delicious and mellow Turkish blend Tobacco, in the V between my first and middle finger; poised to set it aflame and puff away my pain. I push away the nagging reminders in my head, I just can't care that I worked so hard to give up these little devils not so very long ago. I mean, I could have just one, and no one would be the worse for it. I tell myself that deserve it. I tell myself that as I exhale each heavenly mass of smoke, my worries will float out with it, twisting and turning through the air and away from me. I have myself all convinced that one cigarette does not make me a failure, that it has nothing to do with a lack of self control, and that this situation qualifies me for this one tiny innocent smoke. I am sure the situation is not merely an excuse to fall back on my friendly old emotional crutch so that I don't have to limp around on my own until I heal. But, then I wonder, what if I am hurt again? Would it be permissible to rely on the sweet relieve of my beloved Camels every time that an emotional crisis arose? I shake the question off; I can't worry about something that may never happen. I have to focus on the direness of this moment, which means I should hurry up and light this thing. I bring it to my clammy mouth and the delicate paper sticks to my bottom lip as if it doesn't want to get any closer to the actual intake area. I pull it off along with a thin layer of my lower lip and reconsider the magnitude of the consequences that may befall me if I go through with this. What is to stop me from justifying the consumption of two cigarettes to quell my anxiety, or three or four for that matter? There is nothing to stop me from smoking the whole pack, and then going out and buying another one. But I wonder, would I actually do that? Hadn't I learned anything from my previous all consuming dance with mouth-watering menthol? I have to make myself remember how difficult it was to end the siren-like song, and realistically consider my ability to make this my absolute last go round. I look down at the temptress, harmless and wilted in my fingers. I bring it closer to my face for further inspection as I run my tongue over my teeth in concentration. The harder I look at it, the less appealing it seems to me. I didn't need it back then and I should know that I don't need it now. Still, I break it in half for my future protection, because next time I might not be as strong.

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