Bad Habits

I was walking down Sheridan/Broadway on my almost-daily trek to Loyola Lakefront library, and I was dying for a smoke. I'm a pretty moderate smoker, but when I'm cafeinated, the urge increases.

I had finsihed my last pack the night before, and had no money, so I decided to look around and see who might have one to spare. There was a thin, solemn-looking older black gentleman who crossed my path, a fresh cigarette dangling from his month.

"Excuse me, sir, do you happen to have an extra cigarette, by chance?" I asked.

"No, I don't have any, I borrowed this one from somebody else."

"Oh, ok. Sorry to bother you..."

"How old are you?"

"Ummmm... why do you ask?" I said, puzzled, as I didn't see how my age had any relevancy to my asking for cigarette (although I have been weirdly mistaken for 18 more than a few times, and still sometimes get carded for cigarettes).

"I started smoking when I was 41. I'm 53 now. You really should stop smoking... just some advice."

I took this opportunity to explain my usual "I'm a moderate smoker" line, but ultimately agreed that he was right, and it was a bad habit.

He said, "You don't need them. The relationship problem will work itself out."

I, taken aback, said, "Hey, now how do you know if my smoking has anything to do with a relationship??"

"He looked me in the eye and , nodded a little and said:

"I just told you, I'm fifty-three years old," and started to walk away. "Chris," he said, holding out his hand.

"Amanda," I said, shaking his hand and laughing at the irony.

He had a point...