Tap tap tap* goes her hand as she rattles her box of cigs, packing 'em in before she hungrily rips off the cellophane. Her eyes lustfully stare at the untouched pack as she contemplates how it will taste to put one in her mouth. Although the Surgeon General has adequately warned her otherwise, she slides her fingers around her chosen poison, eagerly putting it to her lips. The lighter clicks, and flames quickly lap up the tobacco and its chemical casing. She inhales, and the raggedy breath reverberates in her chest, a sick pleasentness seeping into her veins. Nothing has ever felt better, as blood rushes to her head and her muscles relax. She lights up one after another until the pack is gone, and the cycle begins again; an inner debate where her head tells her to leave the addiction behind, but her heart and body, starting to feel lonely and withdrawn, insist on another pack to dull the creeping emptiness. So back to the corner store she goes, as he waits behind the counter, ready to give her another taste of feigned and unhealthy comfort, for it's better than being alone, sober, and without him.