The Last One | Sreedhari Desai

The last one

he keeps the pack
behind the antifreeze
and the broken rake

out in the garage
where the light
is a single dusty bulb
that hums like an old drunk

he doesn’t even like it
not really
not anymore

but there’s a certain kind of peace
in the first drag
like somebody finally
shut off
the radio in his head

he smokes with the door cracked
so the alarm doesn’t whine
watches the smoke climb up
into the rafters
like it’s trying to leave him too

the phone buzzes
a text from her:

"you almost home?"

he looks at the time
wipes the ash on his jeans
types back

"yeah, just finished up,
traffic’s a mess"

traffic’s fine
he just needed
ten minutes
with a lie in his lungs

he flicks the butt
into an old coffee can
full of grey excuses

in the car
he rolls the windows down
chews two mints
then another
sprays that cheap pine stuff
on the seats
like a priest
blessing a crime scene

he practices his face
in the rearview
that casual half-smile
he thinks honest men have

at home
she kisses him once
on the cheek
squints at him
like she’s searching for a word

“everything okay?”

“yeah,” he says
“long day.”

he moves past her
too fast
heads for the sink
to wash his hands
scrubbing until the yellow water
runs clear

after dinner
they sit on the couch
watching some show
where people ruin their lives
more loudly

and more beautifully
than he ever will

her feet
tucked under his leg
her head
on his shoulder

she laughs at the TV
he laughs a second later
like an echo
like someone who heard the joke
through a wall

there’s a tightness
between his ribs
not quite pain
not quite anything

he thinks of the pack
out in the garage
shivering in the dark

he tells himself
he’s quitting
next week
next month
next time he scares himself coughing
next something

she gets up to make tea
calls from the kitchen:

“you’ve been good about the smoking, huh?”

his heart stumbles

“yeah,” he says

“haven’t even thought about it.”

the words come out smooth
like they’ve been waiting all day
polished
turned over in his pocket
like coins

he hears her
drop the spoon in the sink
a small, metal sound
too clean for this house

“i’m proud of you,”
she says

and there it is
the worst of it

not the burning lungs
not the yellow fingers
not the sleep that never
goes all the way down

it’s that
simple thing
her pride
laid at his feet
like a dog with a stick

he sits there
in the blue light of the TV
the hero on screen
confessing to everyone

and he can’t
even confess
to the one person
who actually
believes in him

he imagines himself
standing up
walking to the garage
grabbing the pack
striking a match
and dropping
every last one
into the trash

a small fire
a small miracle

instead
he stays put
staring straight ahead

he can still taste smoke
under the mint
like the truth
under the lie

she comes back
sits down
hands him a mug

“you okay?”

“yeah,” he says
“i’m fine.”

he takes a sip
burns his tongue
says nothing

later
when she’s asleep
breathing slow
and even
like someone who thinks
the world is basically
what it says it is

he’ll slide out of bed
creak down the hallway
open the back door
with the practiced
gentleness
of a thief

the night will be quiet
polite
pretending it doesn’t see him

he’ll light one up
watch the tip glow
like a tiny red siren

and there he’ll stand
a man in boxers
on a cold porch
taking his punishment
in little breaths

telling himself
it’s the last one

always
always
the last one.