Smoking Stories

Two years had passed since Leo was born, but looking in the full-length mirror, Elena felt like she was still carrying the ghost of the pregnancy. The number on the scale hadn’t budged in six months. She had tried keto, intermittent fasting, and juice cleanses, but the result was always the same: by 9:00 PM, after putting the toddler to sleep, the silence of the house amplified the gnawing hunger in her stomach, and she would find herself blindly eating leftovers or raiding the secret stash of chocolate.

“It’s not just hunger, Mark,” she confessed one evening, poking miserably at a salad. “It’s this… need. I need to be doing something with my mouth. It’s a nervous tick.”

Mark watched her, his expression thoughtful. He swirled his wine. “It’s an oral fixation, El. You’re stressed, and eating soothes that.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “You know, back in the day, women used to smoke to keep their figures. It occupies the hands and the mouth.”

Elena laughed, a sharp, incredulous sound. “Smoke? Are you crazy? I’m trying to get healthy, Mark, not get lung cancer.”

“I’m just saying,” he shrugged, leaning back. “It’s a zero-calorie distraction. Better than a thousand calories of chocolate every night.”

The idea was absurd, but it planted a seed. Two days later, Elena met her friend Sarah for coffee. Sarah was one of those women who bounced back instantly after pregnancy, a fact that irked Elena. When they stepped outside, Sarah lit a slim, white cigarette.

“Can I… can I try that?” Elena asked, feeling foolish.

Sarah raised an eyebrow but handed it over. “Be my guest.”