The Game

We used to play the game endlessly in the coffee shops of New York.

I still remember the last time that we played, and I beat all of our previous records. It's a memory that I know will stay in my mind forever, and it gets triggered at the strangest of times, and by the strangest of things.

It was her turn to measure, and my turn to smoke. We were sat at a metal table, huddled together for privacy.

Are you ready? she asked me.

I paused. Composed myself. Took a last deep breath, filling my lungs with the conditioned air and exhaling every last molecule.

Go! she whispered.

I performed the motion fluidly, just like we'd practised between us hundreds of times. The cigarette was out of the packet and in my mouth within about 0.3 seconds. A flame was licking from the spout of the lighter about 0.2 seconds later. By the time 1.1 seconds had elapsed, I was breathing in the deep, foamy smoke.

I dragged and dragged, the tip of the cigarette glowing like iron in the foundry. I breathed out through my nose as I breathed in through my mouth, my head shrouded in the clouds, my visibility reducing to nothing.

The seconds went by like hours. Everything became nothing, and nothing became even less. I didn't falter for a second. This game wasn't a cross-country race. It was a sprint. A long, hard sprint.

A voice was heard to say Excuse me - you can't smoke in here.

...and stop

I stopped and removed the cigarette from my mouth. A ruler was produced.

She measured the length of ash hanging from the tip of the cigarette, and looked me in the eye with total adoration.

Very impressive, Pete. You win.