The match flared off the heel of his boot with a sparking hiss. The initial combustion calmed and he held the steady flame to his cigarette tip. The still night air carried the soft sizzle of tobacco burning. He took a hard pull, the tip glowing orange in the dark, and, satisfied, waved away the burning match before it could scorch his fingers.
Derek bought the special “strike anywhere” matches with the phosphorous heads down in Mexico, or so he claimed. He was a theatre kid, so he had a flair for the dramatic. It didn’t impress me as much as he probably thought it did, but that was ok. I found the goofy camp of him playing cowboy with every smoke kinda cute.
He bent down, cigarette in mouth. His eyes were closed as he absorbed the first hit of nicotine. I leant in, having to go on tippy-toes to reach even though he wasn’t tall, our cigarette tips touching. I observed his face, the soft peach fuzz that he called a beard and his thick, golden lashes. My tip took and I leant back, taking an appreciative suck. Warm smoke, which I had once found burning, filled my lungs. I let out a cloud into the night air.