Quitting

Some people are just asking for it.

Walking back to the dorm by myself, slightly buzzed and dressed to party, I guess I attracted a certain type of person. I was lighting my cigarette when he grabbed me. My old lighter never works on the first try – the universe’s way of telling me to quit. And that’s what went through my mind when he took my wrists, sending my cigarette and lighter bouncing: I really need to quit.

I’ll never forget the smell of him. Beer and sweat and the body spray of every guy he bro-hugged tonight. A tinge of blood around the edges, though that may have been me; I skinned my elbow when he knocked me down. I’m drowning in the in smell and the pleather of his sleeve pressed against my nose and mouth. He wants to keep my quiet, not suffocate me, but honestly, I think he stopped caring after I scratched him.

He’s fumbling with his fly when his weight is lifted off me. Thrown, more like. Someone else is on this side street, someone bigger than my 5 foot 2. Someone who has a chance.

I don’t see much of the exchange. The world comes back to me, spreading outward from the blur of the streetlight. My brain jumbles the struggle, and by the time I sit up, dazed, and scoot to the shallow curb, my attacker is already sprinting around the corner. It’s only me and a huge, red-faced man in a green sweater. He shouts a last expletive at the retreating frat boy, and turns back to me.

He’s in his mid-forties, topping 300 pounds, none of it muscle. The fat at his temples strains against the earpieces of his glasses. He had dropped his grocery bags at the intersection. A can of cat food rolls toward the storm drain, and I stop it with my foot before it can drop into the sewer. I pick it up as he wheezes his way over. Menacing he’s not, but he got the job done. He takes the cat food and I inch my skirt toward my knees, suddenly aware of how I must look. Bait.

And as fucked up as it is, what starts in my gut as, “Thank you” comes out as, “Sorry.”

He shakes his head, moves to pick up the rest of his groceries. Sponges, toothpaste, floss, house-brand mouthwash. I twitch to help him, but he motions for me to stay seated.

“I got it. I’ll get this picked up, then I’ll walk you to the police station. Or… the hospital?”

I hear the question in the ellipses. “Police station.”

His pudgy face melts in relief. He can still be the hero. He can relive this night without the guilt of being too late the save the girl. He can tell the story without an asterisk. But his hands shake as he puts a bottle of hand sanitizer into a torn grocery bag.

“Are you okay?” I spot my lighter by the curb and worry the cigarettes from my pocket. A group of partygoers passes through the intersection, waves to us. My own hand is steady as I wave back. “Hey, man, you good?”

“Yeah.” He smiles sheepishly and grips one handful of sausage fingers in the other. “I’m … trying to quit. But it’s hard, when I get worked up. Assholes like that make it hard.”

“Yeah, I’ve tried as least a dozen times.” I glance down at the smoking cigarette in my hand. I have no recollection of lighting it. “Sorry.”

“No,” he says, “You go ahead. You deserve it.”

I take a drag, then notice the blood on my shirt, a wet stain on black. My elbow is throbbing, and when I lift it up, I see only a scrape. The blood pinpricks beneath the surface, not quite breaching it. Not mine, on the shirt. I got the guy good when I clawed him. Deep. I need to shower him off of me.

My rescuer is staring at me. It’s unnerving, the same out-of-focus desire I’d seen earlier tonight.

“You okay?” I repeat, casting about for anyone else in the street, but it’s empty again.

“That smell…” His voice is almost a growl. “God, it makes it hard to quit.”

Not me. The cigarette. I relax. I’ve been there. The secondhand smoke dancing through your lungs’ll pull you back every time. “You know… you won’t be able to stop thinking about it until you have one.”

“Just one…” he mutters, his beady eyes twitching.

“It can’t hurt. It’s … circumstantial.” It’s the same lie I’ve fed myself at least a dozen times. I won’t want it when I’m not so stressed. After finals. After a good night’s sleep. Once I’ve eaten something. But that’s bullshit. I’ll always want it. So will he. I just can’t think of another way to say thank you.

My pack catches in the corner of my pocket. I glance down – just a glance – to extricate it. All of two seconds, but he’s gone when I look up, ready with one. Maybe it’s for the best. He saved my life, and I’m shortening his.

But he’s left his bags at the intersection. I move a little closer to the noise of people who might hear someone screaming, and pull the bags protectively toward me. Least I can do. I finish my cigarette and immediately smoke another. And another. I’m not usually this bad, but the night is settling in, getting me. I should quit…

After my fourth, there’s still a restless itch the nicotine can’t reach. I peek into the grocery bags, pull them open with just one finger. Enough to look in. Not enough to be “snooping.” Cleaning products. Cat food. Hygiene stuff. No food, which is surprising for a guy his size. He didn’t exactly scream “willpower.”

I practice my police statement around the thin cylinder of smoke number five. My memory is unreliable – when I try to picture my attacker, I can think only in estimates. About six feet tall. Average build. Maybe… light hair. Probably about my age. And everything is littered with question marks. I can’t believe I didn’t get a good look at him. He’s still lingering in my nostrils. I resist the urge to pick at what must be peeled-away skin beneath my fingernails.

My knight in shining armor is a lost cause. He was probably shaken by his heroics. His adrenaline ran out, and he went home for forget about it all. Maybe I should do the same. There’s a pile of butts at my feet, only one left in the pack, one between my lips. But as I rise to crush it under my boot, he huffs back into view.

He leans down, rifles through the bags, and pulls out the mouthwash. Takes a swig. He looks even fatter somehow, his sweater tighter over his guy. Sweat beads at his hairline. He spits a wide swath of blue tinged with red onto the pavement and smiles at me. He has a dazzling smile.

“Ready to go? The station is close.”

“I didn’t get a good look at him,” I falter.

“That’s okay. I did.”

I feel heavy. Cold. He smells of sweat and beer and body spray, with more than a tinge of blood around the edges. Robotically, I offer him my last cigarette. He waves it off.

“I don’t smoke.”

He holds my gaze. He sees that I understand. We’ve reached the moment where it’s up to me to decide where our night will go. After what seems like hours, I shake my head, pop the cigarette into my mouth, and light it up.

“Yeah, I oughta quit,” I mutter.

“Me, too.” We start walking, falling into step on the main road behind a crowd of girls having the time of their lives. “Maybe tomorrow.”

He picks at a spot on his sweater, dark and harmless in the forgiving glow of the streetlights. Who am I to judge? I know better than anyone: quitting’s a bitch.