Lungs and Nicotine

Left with the unavailability of tables for starving beings with pink lungs and nostrils that unwelcome their nemesis called nicotine, I lunged myself to the far side of the hawker centre. It was the perfect spot for the addicted patrons who were puffing away on a cigarette as if smoke would be contained in their own boundaries, their imagined vacuum, and wouldn't dissipate to elsewhere. My butt sat like it owned a puff smoke shop. However, in a snap, there was the prune-skinned uncle, the sole master in command, not of a sinking ship, for, as he claimed, he had lived a good life. And my thoughts came running from old age to "the calling." I am sorry; I have to euphemize the latter. I am just caught up in a paradox. 

I hoped for an easy trespassing that I felt I did. My lungs said no worries; all things would be very well, anyway. 

I carved my teeth into my pork pao, and it caused a scene in my mouth. My taste buds met it as a father would his prodigal son, making me hungrier, yes, salivating even more. The pork and the pao milled out of their juices, forming mini-balls and bumpy plains, finally, were pushed down to my storage, making me a fraction of a pound heavier. Oh, how my gut worshipped anything but pork! It sang in glorious harmony! I took a sip of my iced lemon tea bombarded with ice barrels -- ah, just a perfect companion for my pork pao. 

I enjoyed my afternoon cravings. I really did, until four more smokers joined uncle. Our circle swelled with nicotine and rained ash. Indeed, they had their own vacuum, and that just killed someone else's pink lungs.

Images: Toa Payoh Central, Singapore