charcoal grey halo, o

It was a bad habit. Or so they say. In life, everyone had to go eventually and sometimes it happens earlier than others would expect. The way he saw it, wasn't it better to have the free will to pick what poison he was shortening his life with? His first cigarette was lit when he was eighteen. Now at twenty-two, he can't remember how many packs he went through since that first burn in his lungs.

He didn't have any plans on stopping despite the many nags that tell him it was bad for his health. There was a difference with being aware of what he was doing to his body and the level of apathy preventing him from caring enough to stopping. Call it weak-willed or a habit that would kill him. People could bite his ass for all he cared. Much to his chagrin, the only suitable place for smoking was outside or areas where smoking was allowed. Despite the open-ness of being outside and in the public, smoke dispersed easier in the wind than indoors.

He took out a stick from his pack before reaching into his pocket to get his lighter. When he didn't feel the fire starter in his possession he swore under his breath. That was his favorite lighter. It must've dropped somewhere in his walk through the city. Retracing his steps was going to be a pain in the ass.

"Hey you," he called out to a person walking by, "You wouldn't happen to have a lighter on you, do ya?"