LASTGLASS

“Last glass goes to you,” I say as I look at you from across the table. Letters on your cover scream an origin, a past history, I do not know, nor care about. A cup of vodka begs, pleads, for me to drink it. I do not.
I pick you up, open you up, light you up. And I inhale. Burning intoxication hits my lungs. I inhale deeper.
The fingers in between which I hold you near me for another drag tremble, too steadily for anyone to notice, too heavily for me to ignore. I exhale, and as my mind tells my body to sigh down and do so, the nicotine rush goes up, up, up, to my head.
I close my eyes and let it hit me, and try to focus on my hand again, by taking that second drag, inhaling, and ashing in the cup in front of me, all in the slowest motion you can possibly imagine.
My first cigarette in ten hours and thirty-seven minutes. I haven’t been counting.
My last glass of vodka. Not that I’m counting.