An itch to a scratch

"My lighter gives out a click, a fizzy pop of butane is let out and the flint rubs to give a spark. Next, a little fire is born to burn the end of my cigarette. Smoke seeps from the stick into my mouth. Soothing, burning, a mild heat comes up and past by my cold nostrils. Damn good stuff, a transient good feeling followed by simple and outstanding disgust with the habit. I should really quit this thing, I'll just have to picture it in my head. It looks fun but my throat and lungs are not having a good time, but I am, temporarily.

A clean looking old man comes up to where I was standing. He was clutching a leather briefcase. He was wearing khaki slacks, unpleated of course. He was asking the guard where he could smoke, the guard pointed to my direction in reply. He put down his clutch down the plant box, gave me a look and a nod. I nodded back. He lit his cigarette, a variation of what I was smoking. It blended with everything he had on: clean and crisp. We puffed, we turned our heads, we looked straight ahead. I was looking at his well polished cordovan tassel loafers. He had new rubber soles on, I can tell. Damn shiny cordovans. I couldn't do that kind of style. He looked accomplished, his brushed steel watch was gripped by the almost cordovan matched leather alligator strap. It all looked clean, like a dog's dick. Clean as a dog's dick.

That nod had me thinking. I don't do that to other people when I see them, not even those I really know; not in the past, not until now. We took more puffs from our bad habits. He snuffed his cig and went inside. I lit another one, it was a combo with the sunny day and slightly cool breeze.

He was clean as a dog's dick."

...