It was only four days since Steve had stopped smoking, but it felt good, like it was really the right thing to do. I am making a vital decision, Steve thought to himself (whatever that meant). I am making a vital decision. He was kind of enjoying the masochism of it, too. After ten years or so of wallowing around and letting himself do exactly what he wanted, here he was slapping the back of his own hand.
It felt vital, to Steve. It felt like he was suddenly a part of things and not watching them slip past him. Here I am, he thinks, alive and making this vital decision with my life.
Steve is standing in the bathroom. He is looking at himself vitally in the mirror. He is looking at his non-smoking face especially, and even though it has only been four days (three nights) since he quit, he is sure this face is starting to look healthier. It is looking pink and babyish and vital as hell.
Now Steve is standing in the hall. He is picking up the phone. He is wanting to make some more vital decisions with his life. He is calling the number for work and getting the answerphone (I won’t be in tomorrow, or the day after that …).
Steve is drinking milk from the bottle.
Steve is squinting admiringly at the bulge of his bicep as he lifts the bottle in the moonlight.
Steve is the most vital man alive.
Steve is fucking incredible.
Now Steve is tired and needs a cigarette and wants to smash everything into tiny little pieces.