I promised myself that I would quit by the time I graduated college. So here I was – the night before the ceremony that bridged the gap between adolescence and student loans. I was alone, on the balcony of my high-rise apartment building, and about to spark up what should be my last cigarette ever. I played Wu-Tang Clan’s “Protect Ya Neck” – the song that I first smoked a cigarette to and stared at my last one. Why must my relationship with this disposable commodity be doomed from the start? Why must the act of quitting be so difficult? I could hold contempt against tobacco for the rest of my life, but for one last moment, I would savor that smoky taste of masochism. I lit the bogey and could taste the sulfur of the match. Leaning over the railing, I took a second drag and absorbed the panoramic view of the metropolis once more. This is it, my last cigarette no matter wha—

My thought was cut short by a suicidal housewife as she plummeted to her death. On the way down, she caught my hand and sent my cigarette falling to the ground along with her. Both the woman and cigarette hit the pavement with a small, red splat. Fascinating as this was, I didn’t even get to enjoy a full, final cigarette. But in retrospect, it was all right. That night I went to the bar, got too drunk, and smoked a whole pack of cigarettes that people pushed onto me. They called my grim little anecdote a sign – a message from the heavens to keep puffing away. So of course, I did just that

          by Jay Burnham