#105

There were days he wished he was a smoker. Standing outside, staring out at nothing, never knowing what to do with his hands, nervously sliding them into his pockets, feeling chapstick, feeling an old straw wrapper, feeling a loose thread. Then pulling his hands out, one, then the other.
His coworkers would come out with a casual, mumbled hello, sliding a white cigarette, sometimes the first in the pack, sometimes the lonely last. A flash of fire, a calm and satisfied sigh with the first drag in the middle of a long day.
He licked his lips, shoved one hand in his pocket, another through his thinning hair.