Down to the last cigarette

It was one of the few birthdays he had. It wasn't too hard thinking of a suitable gift.

His eyebrows went a tad up I think on seeing the perky red ribbon. All gifts are to be wrapped, I insist.

A pack of cigarettes. Happy birthday.

He was convinced yet again that I was the only person who ever understood him.

I saw him wonder whether to light one right away or whether my sentiment would be offended if not. Women's sentiments were a sore subject with him. I saw his quizzical look gauging both my femininity and sentimentality.

A smile offers him the answer.

How long would he take to smoke it all?

Soon.

How soon is soon?

A day, he sighs.

I was to be called when he lit each one. It isn't a woman's duty to make anything easier.

I watched him light each one.

The smile wore down at towards the end... I think. I cannot be sure on that.

When the final one was lit n blown away, he aimed the empty carton at the basket.

Oh no! He was to save the golden silver paper of the pack, didn’t he know?! How else was my present remembered!

As he watched in trepidation, the small chin quivered in protest at this seemingly callous thought of his. Or lack of thought actually.

He later confided to a grown up chin, that it was the first time he considered quitting smoking.