Cancer Sticks

The opening paragraphs for a new piece of fiction I'm working on.

 Cancer Sticks

            Marcus inhaled.  Completely.  Breath - succulent breath - slid across his pursed lips, cooled his throat and funneled through the narrow vortex of his esophagus.  The effect was immediate.  Pure.  Life affirming.  A particular imbalance in the universe was suddenly corrected.  The chambers of his lungs hollowed then expanded, pushing to the limits of his rib cage.  His chest lifted with the force, suspending his sternum until it was nearly weightless.  Along the inner surface of his lungs, a regiment of alveoli took action.  The tiny sacs stretched and inflated, extracted bits of precious cargo, then, with rapid efficiency, offered it to his heart.  To his bloodstream.  To the four corners of his body.

            With the breath came satisfaction.  The inhale belonged to Marcus, a keepsake of his own survival. He wanted to hang on to this breath, like every breath, enveloping it in a full-body embrace.  He did not want to let go.

            For nearly a lifetime, and an entire career, Marcus had engaged in a specific practice of inhaling.  His instrument, his vice, was cleverly packaged and contained a deadly efficient delivery system: nearly weightless, wholly sexy, marginally affordable, twenty to each convenient pack.  The practice had its own ritual.  Pull  the tab.  Tap the butt end.  Pinch the filter between thumb and forefinger.  Light it up.  The satisfaction came with the inhale.  The effect was sustained in the exhale.  Marcus knew this all too well.  He was not just a practitioner of smoking; Marcus had been an icon of the cigarette world.  The hot red glow of his tobacco, his long satisfied drags, the hazy remains of his exhale, all were shared with a captivated audience.  Marcus’ vice was his virtue.  But that was then.  At the moment there was no vice, Marcus only inhaled.  Perhaps that was all that was left for him.  His mind jostled with a slight ditty – could this be the new slogan for his life? - I have a breathing hole, and without it, I am not whole. He thought of this as he lay on a bed, attached to a machine via a tube, which gave him the oxygen to survive.