The smell of cigarette smoke filled the usually sandalwood-scented room for a reason I still couldn’t justify.
I don’t smoke.
Nobody I grew up with had kept any kind of cigarette in the house.
I grew up looking down on every smoker I know.
They reek; their stench nauseate – but bearing it was a part of being social – meaning if everyone in your office smoked and you didn’t, you just have to hold your breath and pray you’d make it out alive.
I locked the door behind me and dropped the leather bag unceremoniously on the floor, the censor turning the lights on as I walked into the apartment.
There is always a first time for everything, people told me.
That night, shedding the clothes that brought in the corrupting smell in the first place felt like some kind of loss instead of relieve.
Took me three days and a coworker to realise how much of a dense idiot I am for not realising the reason why.
“Don’t you know? He’s a smoker.”