He sits at the edge of the cafeteria stairs with an unlit cigarette between his bony fingers. He stares into the horizon as if he is searching for something. He is a guy in his mid-twenties, a bit overweight, rough grey hair and an irregular shave. Dressed semi formally, he reaches for the lighter in his pocket and lights up the cigarette.
A quick deep puff.
The smoke rises in the sky. He moves his fingers through his hair. Stretches his legs on the stairs. Another puff. And another and another. About a dozen people pass by, some look while some ignore. He doesn’t mind them. He keeps on doing what he does. Every Tuesday 2pm, it’s the same thing. Not a word, not a sound. He just comes for the deed. A ritual perhaps. Lasting only a few minutes. Its what he needs to keep the day moving. To keep the clock ticking. To keep the world going round.
Its not an addiction. Its a rejuvenation. For the mind. And for the soul. What good is life if you dont hold death so dearly close? You cherish it with all the might you have and yet you spend another day in the same shattered gloomy world?