By Daniel Hagan
They’d congregate at the outskirts of my apartment complex. I’d see them as I left for work in the morning, and there they lingered upon my return home. Standing in a circle, laughing, puffing their little cancer sticks. Didn’t they know those things could kill you?
Still, at least they weren’t alone. There seemed to be camaraderie in their shared addiction. Summer heatwaves, winter drizzles, it always brought them together. What was it they talked about anyway?
I almost wanted to find out, almost purchased a pack and strolled over to introduce myself.
Almost.
Seclusion was the cost of good health.
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