The Nightmare on Lame Street
I dare not step out of my house at night; what I might find there scares me to my core. I reluctantly slither out in the morning and hide in the metro until I reach my place of work. I do what I’m paid to do and when the bell rings, run back home like a scared little child, blotting out the… I can’t bring myself to even name it. Shivering, I look out of my window and tremble. It’s been days, weeks now since that dreadful day: The day when everything changed.
It was but a quiet winter morning: sipping on my coffee, I planned to welcome 2011 my way. I ruffled my hair, put on my coat and got out. The streets were strangely quiet and the wind particularly icy. I had a bad feeling. A hint, a je-ne-sais-quoi that something was not quite right. It was a Sunday, I used to like Sundays. Sundays were my brunch-book-me-days. I’d choose a café, selfishly take an entire table to myself, switch off my phone, order and spend the afternoon reading a book, oblivious to the rest of the world. It was not to be. Had I not yet settled and gotten my stuff out that some random bloke sat down next to me. Tall, dark and handsome - I couldn’t care less. He smiled; I cringed. Clearly flirtatious, he asked me what I was reading. About to tell him to shove it, I was interrupted by the waiter who put a hand on my shoulder and with a wink asked me what I would like. I ordered and so did the mysterious stranger. He offered me his hand; I lit a cigarette.
And that’s when all hell broke loose; what I was about to hear would shatter me:
”You can’t smoke here!”
“What do you mean I can’t smoke here? I’ve been coming here for months. Of course, I can smoke here!” I snapped back.
“Not anymore,” he said with a vicious grin.
Everything came rushing back in, the gibberish my friends muttered about for months, the headlines of newspapers I ignored: Smoking had been banned. Spain had fallen like every single other nation in Europe before her. I was doomed. I remembered puffing away in the cold London rain, frozen to the bone because the non-smokers had taken over. I remembered how I had to flee the country just so that I could enjoy a nice warm cup of coffee and a fag at the same time. I was a leper yet again. But this time, I had nowhere to run. The only place on Earth where smoking is still allowed in Russia and I barely escaped from there alive*. I put down my book and out of pure frustration snogged the bloke’s face off. Fuelled by desperation, I contemplated using him as a patch but his poor kissing technique and his flabby tongue convinced me otherwise. I went home and lit a cigarette - at least I could still smoke there.
I now stare out of my window, a hand on the cold glass, tearful at what will now be remembered as the good old days.
