I hate smoking; I really do. For example, even the most beautiful woman, who normally would attract me immensely, the moment she reaches for a cigarette, I’m done with her. I will see her as a monster. And yet there was one time in my life when I was infatuated with such a woman, and her smoking, the way she did it, was something that added to her sex appeal. She was a friend of a friend, a bit of a tomboy, with her close-cropped blonde hair, tight jeans, an oversized men’s sweater with rolled-up sleeves, and a tough-guy attitude. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. We had both just turned eighteen and met in a pub, and I knew straight away she was not interested in me, not one iota. She was just being polite, and after that evening, I never met her again. Now, I don’t even remember her name.
Perhaps if I had met her under different circumstances later in life; or maybe my perception was distorted, like in the case of my friend, who one day admitted that she had been madly in love with me for a very long time—I just didn’t see it while chasing big-breasted bimbos. I never understood why she told me so many years later, when she was about to marry someone else. It was like a goodbye kiss, except without a real kiss. How stupid I was in my youth. Now I know that this was the first time I missed a chance at happiness because of my obsession with large breasts. I guess one never learns. At least I didn’t, and now it doesn’t matter anymore.
hidden pilcrow 