Smoker

I can't help but feel I'm throwing my life away, as I smoke the third cigarette in a row, leaning over the window sill, looking at the window directly in front of mine. He had showed up earlier, and smoked a cigarette. He looked at me, and I back at him, and he raised his cigarette, as if saluting me.

I salute you, mysterious smoker guy who lives in the building across from mine.

And I keep smoking. A small part of me wants him to come back and smoke another cigarette with me, and we can hold this silent conversation, both of us extremely aware of the fact that we are wasting our lives in each drag. Or we could devise an elaborate communication plan and have long conversations that would last all night long. Or we could use signs! I'd write my name and my number and he could call me, and I'd invite him over and then we could truly smoke together, both of us leaning on the window sill.

Or none of that could happen, I tell myself, as I put out the cigarette and throw it on the street below me. Or I could realize that I'm still stuck in a loveless relationship with a man who hates me, but refuses to leave me. That I'm too weak myself to leave, too weak to leave this comfortable situation of having someone with me always.

I sigh as I light yet another cigarette.

"I'm killing myself, aren't I?" I tell whoever wants to listen. The moon, the mysterious smoker living in the building across from me, the cars passing by at 3 am. I look up, half expecting the smoker to be leaning on his window sill, staring at me. To my surprise, he is. He waves at me. I wave back. He then disappears for a moment, before reappearing with a cd player. He presses play, and I can faintly hear the song I'd Rather Dance with You by Kings of Convenience.

I smile, but it hits me that he probably can't see me smiling. So I raise my cigarette and nod my head.

He does the same, but raising the cd player instead of a cigarette. When the song is over, he waves again, and disappears.

I am intrigued.

For the next few sleepless nights (something I have become accustomed with since I've stopped loving him), I wait for the smoker to appear on his window and play me a song. Sometimes it's soothing music, sometimes it makes me want to dance. Other times, it makes me feel nostalgic. But it has become something I wait for every night. Something I yearn for. Something I miss. I spend my days now waiting for the time to come where I snake out of my "lover's" embrace and lean on the window sill, a cigarette between my fingers and a desire to see him that only leaves once he appears on his own window, with equipped with the cd player.

I've grown to love this smoker. As strange as that may seem. I don't know him, I don't know what he does or who he wants to be or what his dreams are. Or were. But he brings me comfort. It is somewhat comforting to have a complete stranger play you all sorts of songs. Love songs, mostly.

And when he is gone, when I sit in my office, waiting for night to come, I listen to the songs he played for me the night before. And I dream.

He played Oh My Love by John Lennon, then held up a sign that said, "I want to see you. Tomorrow. I'll cross the street."

I nodded.

I can't wait...