The Last Cigarette at the End of the World

Exhale

The best conversations happen in the space between the match strike and the first exhale. Tonight, it’s -15°C in Montreal, and we’re huddled under the awning of a dépanneur that stopped selling to us an hour ago. You’re telling me about your divorce in two languages.

“Il a pris le chien,” you say, flicking ash. Then, softer: “He took the friggin dog.”
The streetlight above us buzzes like a dying insect. A police car crawls by, officers suspicious. This city never lets you mourn in peace.

I offer you my last cigarette. You decline, then take it anyway. That’s how I know you’re Quebecois.

We don’t speak again. Just stand there, passing the ember back and forth until our fingers freeze. Some griefs are too heavy for words. Some loves are too light to hold.

The smoke curls upward, writing our story in a language no one reads.