Paris. Cigars. Eight.When I lived in Paris.When I smoked cigars.Eight.You brought friends with you today.This changes everything.Chairs are rearranged. Cigarettes and smiles are placed on the table. Stories are inventoried, ready for display.You know me better than this.I am relieved that I am smoking a petit corona. I beg my exit before the half-way point. We'll talk later.
JimmyJimmy wears his hair slicked back. Most of the time he wears a porkpie hat made of desert camouflage material. It's his favorite. Let the bastards try to spot him when he puts that on.Jimmy likes his cigars, too. His favorites are the ones with the little white plastic tips. They taste like cherries.He couldn't find any this morning. His favorite corner store was out of them. Last week they'd probably had ten packs of them. Now nothing. The bastards probably bought them all. He has to settle for this dry, wrinkled thing that's supposed to taste like rum. Who in their right mind wants a cigar that tastes like rum? The bastards.