When Virginia got ill and had to rest in the hospital, I rationed myself to fourteen cigarettes a week. Two every day; one in the morning and the other in the evening. Some days I'd get to half past ten, and I'd allow myself the second cigarette. Then, by lunchtime, I'd struggle not to have a third. Most days I'd finish ten cigarettes by mid-afternoon and pretend I'd done well. After all, I could have smoked a pack of twenty with ease. In the evening, I'd buy more for the next day and smoke them by the end of the night.
During my last visit to the hospital, Virginia asked me in a whisper if I had a light.
I'm sorry, love, I said, biting my lip as my eyes burned with salty tears.
I haven't got a light; I said. Didn't you know I've given up?
Typical, she said, her voice rasping behind the oxygen mask. I'll have to improvise.
Almost a year has passed since she made me promise to stop with her last gasp.
I've kept my promise for eleven months, three weeks and four and a half days.
Just thinking about our life together makes me miss her so much.
It's difficult to forego the two most precious things in one's life.
Losing them both at the same time is heart breaking.
Virginia and cigarettes go together.
In my mind, I can't separate them.
God, I could do with one now.
The End