Second Hand Smoke

___My hands were shaking as I flicked the lighter, cursing as spark after spark flashed but no flame danced on its cool metal head. The cigarette was getting soggy in my sweating palm, reeking nicotine. Letting out a frustrated growl, I turned to the man sitting across from me and flashed a harshly contrived smile.
___“Don’t suppose you have any matches, mate?”
___I should have predicated by scent alone that the answer was no, but who knew? Maybe he was a popular patron of the seedy strip clubs on fourth street. They always had matchbooks to give away. But of course, I wasn’t going to be so lucky as to find a good old fashioned pervert on a city bus. From the flash of disgust curling on his lip, I knew I was in trouble.
___“Why don’t I just skip the matches and give you cancer, would you like that?”
___ I wondered, could he manage a pretentious sneer if I broke his jaw?
___ “Oh, could you? That would be awesome. I’ve been wanting cancer for so long now but no matter how many of these things I smoke, it just isn’t happening.” My smile evaporated and I felt my face go blank. I’m so sick of these preachy anti-smoking crusaders. It’s too bad being a self righteous dick doesn’t cause cancer. Now there’s an “anti-” campaign I could get behind.
___Turning away from the moron next to me, I leaned my head against the window. It was filthy with finger and forehead sebaceous smears; I made my contribution. The rain dappled the glass, creating a thousand tiny distortions in my line of vision. The world looked almost as warped through the lens of the droplets as through the lens of my own mind. Bubbling nightmare taxicabs, streaked pedestrian faces melting down the glass, flowing rivulets of park benches; I drank it all in through the drab grayness of the day.
___My leg danced under me, wriggling like a captive under an oppressor’s grasp. Quivering like windswept leaves in my lap, my hands conveyed my anxiety better than words. I squeezed my eyes shut, still palming the lighter. My thumb played over the switch, and the warmth of the flame danced to life like a hot breath across my skin. But I didn’t light the cigarette. I held the fire to the soft pink flesh of my palm.
___ The pain was immediate and intense, but I steeled myself and did not flinch away. My skin bubbled as fluid in the tissue boiled. Blisters turned to ruptures, hanging skin blackened and curled. The bus began to reek like scorched flesh as greasy black tendrils of smoke rose from my ruined palm.
___ I wondered, would the guy next to me bitch about second hand smoke?