♥♥♥ Paris Dernier - Or the smoking issue ♥♥♥

Outside, the night sky's darkness is lifting—the light of the stars doesn't appear to be as bright anymore.  
He stops the car by the park, where the hill drops down and the ground levels out.  Someone had cut down the weeping willow that used to hang over the street so that only a stump remains.  The posts of the soccer goals are without nets, as they have been since before he moved to this town.  The dog begins to run around, sniffing trees and eating grass while he sits on the park bench where his neighbor first got high.  
Out of his pocket, he pulls out the pack and the matches, and places his wallet and keys on the table.  The streetlights hum and a car alarm sounds in the distance.  
He hesitates when the match doesn't light on the first swipe, but he tries again and a tiny explosion bursts into life.  The cigarette is balancing between his lips, and he swears he feels God kissing him as he takes the first drag.
The smoke rises, and his mouth fills with fire.  The smell is as familiar as the elementary school he can see in the distance, where he spent recess sitting alone and singing to himself while the popular boys called him gay.
He exhales, watches the smoke curl and dissipate, the weight of last December and a year of regret floating away.  
She would disapprove.
His mind is on Paris, the last time he did this.  He never told her that while he was there he had started again, but communication with her then was brief and never detailed.  She might have said something, but she might not have cared.
He takes off his shirt and walks to the middle of the field.  Looking up, he places a hand over a medallion of Saint Francis of Assisi hanging loosely around his neck.
"I know I'm not supposed to ask for things, but this is desperation.  I have suffered for my mistakes, but I am empty, and I am alone.  I need love, if only for to have hope.  And in hope, I can have faith.  All I can offer you, now, is faith.  Bring her back to me.  And if that is too much to ask, bring me someone.  I am empty except for my want to trust you.  I offer you my faith."
When the water first hits his head, it is cool among his hair.  It washes down onto his face and his chest, and he shivers.  The path it takes lines his body with a foreign electricity.  Then the bottle is empty, and the wetness has reached his feet.  
He closes his eyes and sees her face.  The memory isn't clear, but he thinks she is smiling.
The smoke tastes harsh as he reaches the filter.  He inhales sharply, then snubs the cigarette out on the sole of his shoe.

♥ Paris Dernier ♥