He was smoking again. It was my fault. I let him order a beer when we went to get lunch at the crab shack and then I went to the bathroom. By the time we got back to the beach, I realized he must’ve gone to the bar and ordered a double. He thinks he can hide it from me, but I can always tell. He gets chatty and starts walking with a swagger. It gave him the confidence to bum a cigarette and smoke it right in front of me.
“You said you were going to quit,” I protested.
He says he is.
“Then put it out.”
He tells me I can’t tell him what to do. We get into it. Then he says, “you know what? I’m never going to stop, so you can just fuck off about it.”
So I do. I storm off down to the water and let the salty spray wash away the reek of cheap tobacco. I hate it when he smokes because we fight. And it ruins good things that are supposed to be fun, like beach day. We don’t get out here very much anymore, even though it’s just an hour down the road.
I blink the tears out of my eyes, and watch the shells roll over my feet, pulled by the tide. Back and forth, back and forth. I wonder how they ever get out of that cycle without someone coming along to pick them up.
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