Smoke

They had begun to notice him, the man in the aisle seat. His jacket lay crumpled over the armrest. Sweat stained his unbuttoned shirt. The tightly rolled sleeves revealed two nicotine patches. The man's large mouth pushed around a hefty wad of nicotine gum.

Charlie Nichols shifted his bulky frame uneasily in the airplane seat. He tapped the patches to release more chemicals, if that were possible. Impatiently, he opened another piece of the gum.

Charlie could not put himself at ease. Nervously, he waited for this nightmare to end. He had been a chain smoker for the last twenty years. Taking the redeye, he believed, would be a good idea because he could sleep through it, therefore killing the need for a smoke. At the moment, however, Charlie was trying to distract himself from his the cigarette demons that called him. Shuffling through his briefcase, he looked for such a distraction. He found one match and one cigarette.

Charlie didn't care where they came from; he saw them as a gift from the tobacco gods. His goal now was to use them. Airplane rules prohibit smoking, though. There was also the issue of the need to quit. Smoking one cigarette could set back his progress, but, he reasoned, it would make the flight endurable. Charlie looked down at the short, white, filtered piece of heaven in his hand. Unholy thoughts of smoking it continued to race through his brain. Out of the blue, an idea came. There was one place on the plane that he could have privacy and an exhaust fan. Yes, it was the restroom. He could already feel the cigarette between his lips, and the decadent smoke filling his tobacco-starved lungs.

"Can I get you anything, sir," asked a smiling irritation that was the flight attendant. She seemed to materialize out of thin air. "Can I get you a drink?"

"No thanks, I'm fine," growled Charlie inadvertently.

The smile disappeared from the woman's face. "I was just asking," she said, her Chicago attitude breaking through. "You ain't gotta yell." She continued down the aisle, mumbling.