Bad Habit - short story

Bad Habit

     In an exact instant, the moment we saw each other was almost completely in-sync with one another. Three seconds, with eyes fastened onto his, prolonged into what felt like minutes. A gelid, blue gaze tapped into my very core. In that moment, I felt my body along with every bone, every organ, and every vein in it, tense with a heady fright. I did not know him before this moment, nor had I ever seen him before, but with such a gravitational force between his eyes and mine, I somehow knew the universe wanted me to. I think maybe he sensed how vulnerable this knowledge made me become. When the oxygen abandoned my lungs momentarily, a small, faint grin visited his lips—a smile so faint, I was ultimately only intrigued by whether or not it was malicious or genuine. Yet, with all of the will power I had to exude, I turned my cheek, but I could still feel him staring.

     My blood flow was ultimately in my head beyond this point. I felt my heartbeat throbbing in my temples, along with tensing in my throat and clenching of my jaws. Even my eyes were unable to move from the pattern of the dingy concrete on the ground. It was one of those moments where I told myself to act casual, but there was no room for it. I had been cornered by a thorough gaze. We surpassed "casual" the moment he computed my vulnerability with his eyes alone. "Casual" left my vocabulary, and acting it was, of course, no such thing.

     I raised my cigarette to my lip, inhaling not only the rich, toxic smoke, but profoundly taking in the moment. I never wanted to forget this feeling of exhilaration. I knew with every bit of experience in my twenty-three years that it was a heavy rarity to come across someone (with no knowledge of who they are), that could induce an instant mental hysteria with just a glance. I wanted to feel every bit of it, and explore the sense that was him looking at me, and me looking at him. I wanted to know how he sounded. More substantially, I wanted him to speak to me. The way in which he stood—one leg planted firmly beneath him, retaining all of his weight, while the other leg remained loosely wrapped around the other. He leaned against the building possessing such poise, yet a contradicting blasé attitude toward his surroundings. I only imagined the firmness that might've protruded from his tone.

     I thought maybe I should talk to him. Maybe I should wait for him to talk to me. Maybe I shouldn't talk to him at all; I should let this moment be this moment for what it is and remember it that way. What was there to say? Hello, I saw you right there and I haven't experienced such an exciting moment since I was a child. Mind if we chat? There was nothing to say.

     To my own avail, I lifted my gaze at the perfect time to watch him shift from his current position to another—toward me. I pretended not to notice, rapidly looking elsewhere, anywhere but him. The distance between us shortened, and each step aligned with the up and down beats of the seconds passing. I longed so deeply to look up and find him in my clear view, right in front me. Him, leaned up against the wall, foot planted firmly on the ground and the other wrapped around the opposite just as they were a second ago. The only thing that moved in front of me, however, was the scent left behind in the breeze that pushed toward my face. It was almost like the feeling of "getting to the good part" of a dream, only to be awaken at the point of no return—the good part. With his scent he disappeared into the front doors of the apartment complex.

     This went on for a few days longer. I found myself chain smoking cigarettes to catch another glimpse of him outside, propped up against that wall. I started to feel a sense of lunacy, being at this point I was strengthening a bad habit just to maybe gain a slight chance at seeing him, and to feel the bliss of the silent exchange of glances we gave each other that night. Then I gave it a second thought. Maybe my bad habit became him, and the cigarettes were just a tie-in, an excuse even. I even went as far as to completely dismiss the fact my balcony that extended from my apartment was more than accessible, and very much an option to waste away at my lungs when I feigned for it. Instead, I always chose a quick elevator trip down to the lobby and straight outside to count on the hope of him being where I left him last.

     Then came the day I had almost given up—given up on trying to muster the courage to talk to him. If I could even find him, that was. I had almost convinced myself he was a figment of my imagination, and maybe our exchange was something my subconscious was longing for and I had completely made up the whole thing. It was not until a few days after, around nine o'clock at night, I took the aged elevator down to the lobby to fit in my last cigarette of the evening. Through the front doors I exited out into the brisk March night. It was at the point of the month where winter just couldn't seem to get over itself. The point where everyone else was wishing it farewell but it continued to leave its whereabouts among us all with temperatures of sixty-five during the day and thirty-eight during the evening. This was the time of year where I felt I could find a friend in the season, a friend I could really relate to.

     The swift breeze caught me at the nape of my neck, causing a sudden chill to carry down my body. There was the winter—unabashed, unforgiving, and most of all, present.

     I did not even realize he was standing there in his spot, leaned up against that wall, shuffling through a pack of cigarettes. What had finally captured my attention was when a quiet yet stern cuss word fell from his mouth. I spun around in that direction to see him, fidgeting in his pockets to clearly become disappointed shortly after.

     He asked me if I had a lighter, to which I joked that I did but my mother always told me not to give my lighters away to strangers. He laughed timidly; it was almost fake. However, to finally see a faint preview of his smile, suddenly added a healing factor to my crippled, gray, smoke-filled lungs. That smile made me question if my bad habit was so bad after all.