The Smoking Section Outside AA

Where Truth Lives

Nobody quits everything at once. Outside the church on L'Assomption, we're all negotiating with our demons, one cigarette at a time. You're new; I can tell by how you hold your coffee like it might save you, by how you stay close to the door like you might bolt.

"First meeting?" I ask, though I know the answer.

"Troisième," you say. Third. But your hands shake like it's your first.

We don't talk about why we're here. Instead, we discuss Kierkegaard's concept of despair, how it's the sickness unto death but also maybe the beginning of something else. You say addiction is just looking for God in all the wrong bottles. I say God is just another addiction with better marketing.

Someone inside starts the Serenity Prayer. We stub out our cigarettes in unison, a small ritual of endings. You touch my shoulder before going in; not romantic, just human. "On y va?" you ask.

"On y va," I confirm.

Every Tuesday after that, we share ten minutes of honesty wrapped in smoke. We never exchange names, never meet elsewhere. But in those moments between cigarettes and confession, we're more real than we are anywhere else.

Recovery, like love, happens in parking lots and borrowed light, one day at a time, one breath at a time.