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Tuesday 200 - #41

"You sure?" Roger asked, pushing the pack of Winston Lights toward me.

It'd been sixteen days and I was determined to make it work this time. I'd even gone so far as to promise that if I fell off the wagon, I'd go down to the old folks' home and trim everybody's toenails.

I patted my shoulder. "Nope, the patch is giving me all the nicotine I need. But don't let that stop you from blowing this way," I said, leaning in towards him and his girlfriend.

"But we just finished eating," Shelly squealed, twirling her freshly auburned curls around her bejeweled fingernail. "How can you not smoke after a meal? I'd just die." Shelly was an actress/model/receptionist with a penchant for "just dying" about most anything.

I almost told her that chewing on lime rinds after seven shots of Cuervo really didn't constitute a meal, but she'd already lit up and headed outside to the smoking area. Neither of us bothered to tell her to wipe the salt of her chin.

She never saw the Greyhound coming. It took out the whole front of the bar. Coroner said the driver had a stroke.

I don't miss her one bit.

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