This Is My Lost Cause State Of Mind

Anything consumed in excess and over a long enough period of time can turn into an addiction—or at the very least, a dependency.

Classic examples abound: illicit substances, alcohol, sugar (yes, even if you refuse to believe it), and if we step into slightly more personal territory—cigarettes. And also, a woman.

An ordinary woman. Average height, short black hair, and a voice register I can’t describe with any confidence because, despite seeing her every single day for the past three years, the only words I’ve ever heard come out of her mouth were 'That’ll be 9.45.' Which happens to be the exact price of the cigarette brand I buy—and which also, if you reinterpret the numbers in a slightly different frame of mind, is the precise time I walk into her store every day.

A completely empty store—not empty of merchandise, but of customers (if we subtract me from the equation, naturally)—located across the street. Which means I can state with absolute certainty that I have never seen a single other person walk in there.

Of course, the way I describe things makes them sound like more than they actually are.

A girl of very few words who has never once lifted her head to look at me during any of our transactions.
A store that, by any logical standard, should have gone bankrupt long ago but— for reasons that escape not only my understanding but also my interest—continues to operate.
And a man who lost his job no more than two weeks ago over an absurd argument with his employer concerning some poorly written spreadsheets.

Those poorly written spreadsheets didn’t prevent the situation from escalating into a full-blown fight about how said employer routinely asked for the numbers to be adjusted because a large portion of the company’s income was being funneled toward one of his various lovers—an accusation thrown by the employee (the person) as a counterattack to the spreadsheet criticism.

The spreadsheets did, in fact, contain an error. I only noticed it after the whole back-and-forth that ended with me getting fired.

The man—the person—now lives off the small amount of savings he had left and whatever he managed to get by selling some of his possessions.

The person has an apartment containing: one white futon, two pillows, a single winter blanket, black curtains, a television that no longer works, a cell phone with no service, a diet best described as 'whatever I can afford,' and above all—most importantly—he lives directly across from a store run by a woman.

An ordinary woman. Average height. Short black hair.
It is that woman upon whom the person has developed a dependency.
And that person, without further preamble, is me.

“One pack of—”

“Cigarettes.” She finished my sentence, already reaching back. Her finger moved between brands as though she had memorized the millimeter-perfect distance separating each pack and the exact position of every label. Worth noting: she did all of this while scrolling on her phone. Never—not once—did she raise her eyes to me. “Same brand?”

“Same brand.”

“Ever thought about switching?”

“Why would I? It’s part of the habit.”

“There are flavored ones.”

“I prefer the classics.”

“I even have some that are scented.”

“And you’re telling me this because…?”

“When you smoke on your balcony the smell drifts over here, and I can confirm I don’t like the smell of tobacco.”

“Then I apologize,” I said, reaching for the pack.

“I accept your apology even though it isn’t sincere.”

“I accept that you accept my insincere apology.”

“That’ll be 10.20.”

“That’s robbery.”

“It’s a surcharge.”

“Lack of customers making you gouge the only one you have?”

“It’s not about the price. It’s about the time.”

“10:20?”

“Exactly. Tardiness tax.”

“So you’re punishing me for something that has zero impact on your work.” I took the pack and slipped it into my pocket while scanning the inside of the store the way I always do. “You’re making me even poorer.”

“Maintaining a vice while unemployed is a straight line toward financial collapse,” she replied, finally setting her phone down on the counter.

If you analyzed her appearance: a curved fringe hanging a couple of centimeters above her eyebrows, black nail polish on every finger except the pinkies (those were pink, as ironic as it might sound), and a so-called 'uniform' that consisted of nothing more elaborate than a plain black shirt with a name tag—everything pointed to the fact that I was standing in front of someone who (don’t get me wrong) was not socially inept, nor some generic anime archetype, but rather a person who appeared to have been born without that thin, invisible barrier most people call 'conversational filter.'

“So all it took was showing up late for us to actually talk.” I said to myself outloud.

“If that was your goal, yes.”

“No, actually not…” Lie. Actually yes. “It just strikes me as strange that it never happened before.”

“Why would it have happened before?”

“You’re right. It was impossible.”

“Obviously. Obligations. Fixed schedules.”

“Is that a subtle way of telling me to leave?”

“Not really. I was talking about your unemployment and your apparent lack of intention to look for another job.”

“I am looking for work, for your information.”

“Sure…” She stood up from her chair and tilted her head, motioning for me to come around to the other side of the counter. “Can you sit here?”

“Are you going to make me work?” I asked while stepping around.

She was wearing sneakers, a pleated skirt decorated with a couple of pins (probably from some series or character), and thigh-high socks.
Not marking it as a fetish—just an observation, however redundant that may sound.

“Don’t answer a question with another question.” She picked up her phone again. For a split second I caught a glimpse of what she had been endlessly scrolling: cat videos.

“Fine. Now what?”

“Look sixty centimeters up.”

“How am I supposed to know what sixty centimeters is? I’m not even sure my neck bends that far.”

She pushed my chin upward with her thumb. Not rough at all—an exaggeratedly gentle touch.

From where I sit I can see your apartment, so I’m just making observations based on the evidence available. You aren’t looking for work. You just come here. And you survive thanks to…” She pointed three doors down from my apartment. “…the old lady over there who leaves a bento box at your door every morning.”

“Okay this is… humiliating…”

“There’s nothing humiliating about being poor.”

“The way you say it makes it feel worse.”

“How should I say it then?”

“I don’t know… humble?”

“Economically challenged.”

“Even worse.”

“Lower class.”

“And you just keep going…”

I could spend time debating internally whether she’s a sociopath, a dysfunctional person, someone brutally honest, or simply someone with far too much free time. What I cannot debate under any circumstances is that she is—beyond any place for doubt—incredibly attractive.
And extraordinarily strange in the worst-best possible way.

“I apologize then.” She said.

“That felt fake.”

“I know. But I’m supposed to say it anyway.”

“Can I request compensation for psychological damage?”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“You’re assuming I’m exaggerating.”

“Fair point. What do you propose? I’m not giving you free cigarettes.”

“I wasn’t thinking that. Now I am thinking it, but I wasn’t before.”

“Then I’m preemptively refusing so you can stop thinking about what you weren’t thinking about but now are.”

“Hmm…” I scratched the back of my neck and shifted position in her chair. “Going out.”

“The door is right there.”

“No, not literally… I mean actually going out.”

“To the sidewalk?”

“To a date.”

“Under what terms? What does it entail? What is and is not permitted?” She leaned in, placing her face directly in front of mine.
Ironic.

Like I said: anything consumed in excess and over a long enough period of time can turn into an addiction—or at the very least, a dependency.

Classic examples: illicit substances, alcohol, sugar (yes, even if you refuse to believe it), cigarettes. And also, a woman.

This woman.
Strange.
Potentially on some spectrum. dysfunctional, perhaps.

Now, up close—exaggeratedly pretty (using a word that doesn’t feel out of place)—she was looking me in the eyes for the first time.
And I was looking into hers.
Light brown.

Exactly the color of cigarette filters.