When I stepped into the apartment, the smell of the usual sandalwood incense tickled my senses as I chucked my fake leather clutch and heels to the floor. Relieving the burden off my shoulders and feet had always been a highlight of the day whenever I got home from the so-called office parties.
Now, the best part: shower.
It’s essential to get rid of the horrible smell of cigarette smoke sticking to my clothes and hair. It’s been a year, and I hadn’t been able to get used to this… this… socialising part of living. Because socialising means I need to hold my breath and hope I’d come out alive after every single conversation in the party.
I don’t smoke.
I grew up in a house where nobody smokes.
I grew up looking down on smokers, wishing them the worst of luck every time they blew their smoke against my face like I’m a fucking ashtray. I despise it from the bottom of my heart.
Yet there was a weird feeling when I stepped out of the bathroom.
It was loss instead of the usual relieve.
It was when I no longer smelled the reek that was cigarette smoke.
The morning after, I realised why.
‘Don’t you remember? He’s a smoker.’
Now for the cookie point.
C10H14N2 is the formula for Nicotine!
Anyone guessed right?