The last time I had a cigarette was on New Year’s Eve, 2018. A frigid Scotland night. A friendly bouncer occasionally dipping inside the building to make sure people were getting enough water. No “Ode To The Mets” playing. No Ukrainian billionaire trying to pair up with Despot in an effort to redevelop Citi Field into something that went up and up into the sky and away like something you might find glowing ashen orange and red like sci-fi art from the 1970′s. No frizzy-haired laugh pushing me into a bar in Brooklyn so we could stare at a grandmotherly bartender like we were a pair of David Attenboroughs. No Patrick Lynch doing his best Dr. Strangelove impression. No train carrying me across the bridge, carrying me across the bridge, carrying me across the bridge.
Image: New York, Hedda Sterne, 1956.