I positioned my hand on the first step of the ladder and repeated to myself ‘It’s for my baba’. I was pathetic. Couldn’t even stand upto what I was doing. I knew all that man was trying to do was help me. What did he have to loose. Just giving a simple piece of advice in order to make some other person’s life better. You’ll see that a lot in Pakistanis. The love and care for others, always ready to lend a helping hand to someone in distress. Especially if the distressed was a woman. I forced my body on to the roof, mountaineering the last step of the wooden ladder and proceeded to my favorite sitting spot. From it I could directly see my neighbor’s backyard lawn where Fatima used to play with her younger sisters. Ever since she moved here I had made it a routine to come to this spot just to see her. It was becoming an obsession. She was becoming an obsession. Right now she was no where to be seen.
I sat on the dry leaves, my back supported by a wall leading to the ceiling of my parent’s bedroom. I wouldn’t want Fatima to see me doing this anyways. I took out a white box out of pocket. It had golden border lines and was sealed. On the front, in bold black writing was written ‘Marlboro’. I unpacked the little box and slid out a sleek cylinder shaped, delicate cigarette and held it by its butt, the filter, between my index and middle finger’s tips. I couldn’t control my hunger for it anymore. I pulled up my jeans from the ankle and rolled down my socks to reveal a lighter. It was small and compact in size, perfect to grant hidden mobility. I put the cigarette in my mouth and lit the flame. I burnt its end and took a deep inhale using it as a breathing apparatus and the tobacco lit up, as if coming instantly to life. I kept the smoke inside my lungs for brief while and then released it in utter comfort as if all my injuries were healed, all the pain was finished. My life could never have been greater.