The humid air hung around me as I slowly turned towards the hookah, my hands reaching for the pipe. Breathing all the carbon dioxide in this stuffy room as made me light-headed, almost as if I am running out of air, drowsy as I was I tried to keep the conversation going.
“You can’t just keep going like that forever, you obviously know what’s better for you and what isn’t… Okay, look I don’t even know why I bother talking to you about this…” she said, annoyed that I was blatantly ignoring her with my inhalation of tobacco through the bubbling sounds.
I squinted and went cross-eyed, smoke rings coming out from between my lips, I have never particularly been good at it, nor have I seemed to improve with all my shisha experiences.
She took a long sip from her draft beer, half-way done, and set down the glass gently on the coaster. “Look, we both know you’re going no where with this relationship with him. You’re wrecking yourself and wasting your fucking time. ” Probably exasperated that I have kept silent for so long, she rolled her eyes and sat back into the comfortable sofa and let out a long sigh.
I looked across the room and saw that the table across was making perfect smoke rings, I kept staring at how he melds his mouth into this shape, how his slightly apart mouth let the smoke escape slowly, driftly into the air that was already foggy to begin with. Bad light made me look harder, I couldn’t tell what I was doing wrong, wasn’t I doing the same thing? Exact copies of the shape and breathing I could examine from this distance.
Telling myself: okay, maybe practise makes perfect. I have to keep trying.
“Why do you even bother making smoke rings?” toying with the moisture that clung on the glass rim, she asked.
“Hoping that if it kills me I want it to look beautiful.”