Pipe Tobacco

When he walked into my apartment, it was the first thing I noticed about him... after his sad dark eyes, his thick salt and pepper hair, and his smile.

"You started smoking again," I said. He told me he'd started smoking a pipe. I tried to imagine that, him in his truck with a pipe between his teeth, puffing away on the thirty minute drive from his job to my apartment.

It wasn't hard to imagine. And he definitely smelled like it.

It wasn't an unpleasant smell; unexpected, yes (he was an unapologetic ex-smoker when I met him six years before), but not unpleasant. Not like the cigarette odor that permeates my mother's house.

So, I finally had him in my apartment, after inviting him over on a semi regular basis since I moved back to Edmond from Del City nearly three years before. He never had time, or I lived at the wrong end of the Interstate, or something...

He was here, and we were going to get some talking done.

He's more than a friend, but not quite a lover. I liken our relationship to being like "friends with benefits" (a term I truly despise). A lot of what we had to say didn't involve words so much as it involved non verbal communication.

It's not what we said, it was what we didn't say that occupied our time together.

He is patient and gentle with me, and I could feel the passion in his touch, his kisses, in his embrace. I always get the feeling that he doesn't get to express himself this way a lot of the time. It's always been that way between us.

Our time together is always much too short, but his commute is now an hour, and traffic will be bad after a while if he didn't leave soon.

He held me before he walked out the door, and one last kiss before he descended the stairs leading from my apartment to where he was parked.

Then, he was gone; back on the road to the rural community 40 miles southeast of Oklahoma City that he's called home for the last several years. "Drive safe," I said as he disappeared around the corner.

However, the smell of his pipe tobacco lingered in the air of my apartment for several hours after he left. And he didn't even smoke while he was here. I have a non-smoking home, and he knew that.

Still I could feel his touch, taste his kiss, and the sweet smell of pipe tobacco filled my nostrils with longing.

Was he really here, in my apartment? Or was it just a dream?

All I had to do is sniff the air. Yes, he was really here.


© 2011

Thanks for the feedback... I realized after I posted this that I think it's in the wrong section, because this is something that actually occurred.

I've been reading Stephen King's books for several years now, and read his "On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft", and that seemed to help with my writing. I recommend it highly to anyone who takes writing seriously. I've been writing most of my life, and I truly enjoy the creation part of it.

Again, thanks for the kind words. --Stef

That was a good read Stef, it kinda boggles my mind. I haven't really read Stephen King, but I've watched some of the movies based on his works. Twisted guy...I like him. I think I'll go read his memoir sometime :)