Taking Smoke

I hoped and was happy to find a smoking room in the airport.  It was all the way at the end of the terminal, but I enjoyed the journey to and from.  Without making it obvious I smiled as I entered the smoking lounge.  I smiled because I was happy to smoke; I smiled because I thought it was funny that everyone in there was in there to smoke; I smiled because I felt at home with this group.  I decided if I had to be stuck with a group of people, or on a airplane crashing, I would prefer this group of strangers over other strangers. Smokers have a sense of reality about life and dying. They live in, even if very small, a little world of fantasy, of bodily pleasure and the aberrant pain of romance.  They realize the value of self-injury, whether used to prevent or treat, I think that smokers smoke to not get hurt  or to not hurt others.  There are exceptions, smokers whom hurt others, but they are that, exceptions: every sociopath is an exception to the rule of how human brains operate.  There were several people who wore green tops or hats, most likely none of which were sociopaths.  Finding and wearing a green article of clothing from one's wardrobe was typical for March 17, Saint Patrick's Day, in this part of America for this time in history.  There was a man who wore a green shirt and was sitting in the corner of the smoking lounge. I'm pretty sure he was there when I had come in myself.    My smile from many things tickling my mind and body might have caught his attention.  He moved twice, once across the room to the seat caddy corner to me, and once to the seat adjacent to me.  In between us was a small table in place of a chair in the row of attached chairs where passengers sit waiting to come and go.  My second cigarette was half a chance for me and half a chance for the man.  Body and mind wanted more nicotine and smoke, for the reasons it did, and he seemed like to want to talk to me, perhaps to tell or ask me something, can't be sure.  I took my ear buds out, first one, then both, giving first one ear then both, to listen.  He said nothing.  I put my phone on the plastic tabletop.  The first move across the room to the seat caddy corner could be justified by the standing ashtray that was located on the floor to my right.  The second move, yet still, could be explained through a desire for greater proximity to the designated area for ashing one's cigarette, but it seemed he had other motives, not ill intentions, good intentions, just lacking the lack of fear to be fulfilled with action. By the end of my second cigarette he still had not said a word, but by the time the last of my undirected fear faded I turned toward him and asked him if he read.  He said yes, I asked him then if he liked to read poetry, and he said yes again.  He said something positive but I can't remember what exactly. I told him I write poetry and if he is interested he could look up on Myspace the name I wrote down, my name, on a page and tore out from my journal, the same small journal am writing in now.  When I sat I smiled lightly and wished I was better writing with my left hand and that the airport terminal seats didn't interact with my shape and size and pants' fabric to make me feel as if I'm always  about to slip out or barely touching the floor.  They make me feel ungrounded, hard to write and smoke, but I didn't mind.  I didn't mind anything for those ten minutes in the smoking lounge.  I smiled lightly and enjoyed my time.  I was waiting for my flight to board. I had to run the last stretch of the terminal as I had taken my time on my journey.  In flight now, far from the ground, I enjoy my time and smile lightly.  I am not waiting to land, I am just flying.  I wrote the following while I was in the smoking lounge: "the way we are is fine and natural. testing, testing. ground check. confirmed. here we are. here we are. hello."