There is a sound that only smokers hear, rather that only smokers recognise. It is the sound that a cigarette makes as the flame from lighter or match catches the tip and the first drag of smoke flows into your lungs. The closest I can come to describing it is like the sound you would get from scrunching up a piece of very fine tissue paper, but even then that is not it. It is close, but there is another element to it as well, something that defies description and yet at the same time you could ask any smoker and they would know exactly what you meant.
As we stood there on the top of the cliff looking down at the city lights below, winking in the darkness, I realised that I was craving the chance to hear that sound; not a smoke at all. I did not have any on me; it had been 8 months since I had. Peter would not have any with him, after all he had been one of the principal architects of my quitting this time. I had to find a way to manage the anticipation and excitement without one. Peter nodded, time to jump.
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