Smoke

Cigars.

That taste, that feeling, lingers in my mouth and on my lips from the day's fishing and the smoke swirling slowly around my head in the dense, dripping, post-thunderstorm air stings my eye's memories. 47 ring size. Dominican Perfecto. Bought at the deli who's selection is infinitely better and fresher than the cigar store the next town over.

Those things may kill me. Or not. We roll the dice each time we exit the door and wading deep, rough water or driving on I-84 is more likely to kill me than hand-rolled, Cameroon-encased joy. Rationalization, I suppose.

I only smoke on the water which may be my one concession to managing my addiction, even though I occasionally have one at home. And, rarely, other places.

I like them with scotch. Or beer. Crisp, fresh water is good on the stream on an unseasonably hot April day. So is a cigar.

Three in a cigar case. Two for me, one to offer a friend just in case he's wanting. Lacking a friend the third is in reserve though the reserve rarely lasts the day, though it did today. When the fishing is good, regardless of the catching, even desire can be dampened.