I was walking down Sheridan/Broadway on my almost-daily trek to Loyola Lakefront library, and I was dying for a smoke. I'm a pretty moderate smoker, but when I'm caffeinated, the urge is amplified.
I had finished my last pack the night before, and had no money, so I decided to look around and see who might have one to spare. There was a thin, solemn-looking, older black gentleman who crossed my path, a fresh cigarette dangling from his month.
"Excuse me, sir, do you happen to have an extra cigarette, by chance?" I asked.
"No, I don't have any, I borrowed this one from somebody else."
"Oh, ok. Sorry to bother you..."
"How old are you?"
"Ummmm... why do you ask?" I said, puzzled, as I didn't see how my age had any relevancy to my asking for cigarette (although I have been weirdly mistaken for 18 more than a few times, and still sometimes get carded for cigarettes).
"I started smoking when I was 41. I'm 53 now. You really should stop smoking... just some advice."
I took this opportunity to explain my usual "I'm a moderate smoker" line, but ultimately agreed that he was right, and that indeed was it was a bad habit.
He said, "You don't need them. The relationship problem will work itself out."
Taken aback, I said, "Hey, now how do you know if my smoking has anything to do with a relationship??"
"He looked me in the eye, nodded a little and said:
"I just told you, I'm fifty-three years old," and started to walk away. "Chris," he said, holding out his hand.
"Amanda," I said, shaking his hand as I laughed.
He had a point...
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