languages of love in a savannah bar

And then I spot him.

Tall and compulsively clad in his fleece vest with the collar of his bleach white, perfectly pressed button down shirt poking out ever so coyly. The way he moves projects an aura of aplomb I've never had. He sits down at the bar, letting his feet levitate a few inches above the dirty floor, occasionally brushing against it.

This is a boy I have secretly admired for two years now. We've never spoken. It's more of an, I know he exists, and I'm pretty sure he knows I do too. There are cigarette butts everywhere, and the girl sitting next to me just spilt her drink, managing to spill some atop my new suede sandals.

But I am un-fazed. Let your cigarette ashes burn me and your alcohol stain my clothes, for I will not care. Not now. Not while he is here, sitting a few feet away from me, unaware of my presence... for now. I'd rather it be that way for my tongue feels like it has swelled to the size of my foot, and an unusual amount of phlegm has formed in the back on my throat.

I realize that everyone in bars want to get their hands on something. Mine become occupied by cigarettes and rum and cokes.

Unfortunately for my friend, the guy she's been talking to wants to get his hands on her. I manage to break my attention away from, "him," and try to help her out.

Body language is not something I can read into well. I don't pick up on subtleties, only blatant gestures and when I walk up to her, I can't tell if she wants me interjecting or not.

Her body is facing him, however, not entirely, leaving an open space for me to walk into.

I hear her say, "Oh! You speak German too?"

He responds, "Wie, lang haben sie deutsches gesprochen?" (How long have you been speaking German?)

As he asks this, I tap her gently on the shoulder, making her aware of my presence.

Death stare.

"I'll be right back," he says, as he walks off to the bar.

She turns to me, rolls her eyes and says, "Claire! What. The. Hell. I liked him!"

"Well how was I supposed to know that?"

"I was speaking German!"

"Oh, psh. Right. The language of love. I forgot. Alright well fine. Sorry, I'll just go sit back down."

Never mind the fact that YOU dragged ME here tonight and swore to me that I'd have fun. Never mind that Friendship Rule #1 is to never leave a friend alone in a bar unless the friend has stated he or she is O.K. sitting by themselves, looking like social outcasts, prudes or deeply disturbed alcoholics.

I return to my seat and down my very girlie beverage. I hear a guy clearing his throat next to me. He taps me on the shoulder and says, "So, I have a bet going on with my friend here that your legs are better than your friends over there. I think yours are nicer."

I pleasantly smile and say, "Thank you," then excuse myself to the bathroom.

Do men really think lines like these work on girls? Not to mention he is over thirty five years old.

I run into my "friend" on the way to the bathroom and let out a, "Thanks, alot!" She's too occupied pretending she knows more than five words in German to hear me though.

As I walk out of the bathroom, I see HIM again. You know, the guy I have idolized since my first year in Savannah. The guy I will never really be able to talk to unless someone is holding me up, while fanning my face and feeding me witty, cute remarks.

"Ahhh, yes. About Marcel Proust, I find him to be quite fascinating."

( I don't know why, but for some reason I picture our first conversation played out in English accents, talking about authors, literature and theories of life.)

While fantasizing about our first conversation, as I often do, little do I realize it would be all too soon.

"Ouch!" He is standing in front of me and just stepped on my big toe.

"Oh, God. I'm so sorry," he says. "Shit, I'm always doing stuff like that. Way to fucking go, dumbass! Oh, um, pardon my french," and lets out the most adorable laugh. He smiles as he patiently waits for me to respond.

At last, a language of love I can relate to.

to smoke or not to smoke?

If I had a dollar for how many times a day someone told me the risks of smoking cigarettes, or to put my cigarette out, I'd be rich. Or at least have enough money to gain back the dollars I've spent on Marlboro Lights for the last three years. Do these people think I don't know what my lungs must look like? That I've been conned into smoking by peer pressure and they feel the need to pull me out of this cloud of vulnerability, uncertainty and mindlessness? I am aware of the risks that come with smoking.

"You know, those cause lung cancer."

Really? I had no idea! I thought they were just bad for pregnant women.

"Second hand smoke kills."

Then kindly leave my presence.

When a close friend of mine sits me down to say, "Claire, you should think about cutting back," I will then take it to heart. Sit on it. Consider it. Dwell upon it. But to be told by the woman at the CVS checkout counter that cigarettes will kill me, I don't feel the need to be kind. Or, when I'm yelled at by the homeless man, sitting on a bench in the square outside of my apartment, that I had "better quit that stuff before it's too late." If anything, their quips make me feel like I'm some sort of idiot.

I am aware smoking kills. I can read the warning label. I can make my own decisions thank you. Just ring this baby up and I'll take my business elsewhere.

It's not like I haven't quit before, or at least tried to. I quit freshman year of college for a few months. I ran out of money and decided to spend it on more important things. Somehow, cigarettes became just as important and crept their way back in. My recent attempts have unfortunately failed me as well.

Attempt 1. New Years Resolution.

I never stick to these, and I'd like to meet someone who has. I envy you in that regard.

Attempt 2. Lent

I made a deal with myself to not smoke before 5 P.M. This worked for a while, but I found myself smoking more after 5 than I did before I made the stupid deal.

Attempt 3. I purchased a smoking cessation track on Itunes. Hypnosis Track For Those Who Wish to Stop Smoking.

First of all, the guy had a lisp so I couldn't focus on his words so much as the lack there of. Second of all, after listening to someone drone on about smoking for twenty minutes, the only thing I could think of was having a cigarette.

I could quit cold turkey, but I lack the willpower. Does that mean I'm weak? Am I not strong enough to tell myself, "No. Don't do it. You'll regret it later. I mean it! DON'T DO IT!"

Or maybe it's not that I can't, it's because I don't want to. Maybe my attempts have failed because I am not ready to quit. I like the act of smoking. Yes, that's it. I like it too much to let it go just yet. It's not the nicotine that I crave. I can go hours without smoking when I have to. For instance, on a plane, my body does not gyrate because of the lack of nicotine. I am strangely calm instead. I just like that hand to mouth fixation. Smoking has become part of who I am.

Hi, I'm Claire. I'm a smoker.

Now, I am not justifying cigarettes. (At least I don't mean to.) I do, of course, wish I had never started the filthy habit.

I am paying homage to smokers who do not want to be lectured every time they light up.

I'm sure you all mean well by your advice and words, however, I've grown tired of the constant reminders.

As I write this, I have since lit a cigarette. The person in the room with me just asked, "So, how many does that make today?"

Bite me.