red jellyfish

I have been a smoker for approximately six months. I've been smoking for longer, yes, but only recently fell into a groove, a brand and a habit. Late night car rides, generally alone; waiting for the bus or the train or a person to meet—when my nerves get the best of me. Camel Turkish Royals. Always.
For this particular cigarette, I had been waiting in line for something unimportant. I finished the smoke, clutched my leopard print jacket and walked around the corner to a vintage store, because my friends were meeting me there. I left the line and was not sad. But my friends did not come and so, I returned, limply.
My lungs were still full of nicotine and as my mouth began to rehydrate itself, a man approached me and asked if I had a smoke. Finally, I thought, others can recognize me as a smoker, which can only mean I truly am. Gladly, I reached into my pocket and retrieved the blue pack. "Do you need a light?" I asked. "Yeah. actually," he said. "I'm a terrible smoker."
For one reason or another, I was not compelled to join him. Instead, we talked and I became infatuated. As his cigarette drew to half-finished, I saw my friends round the corner. They came over and we all talked to one another. The man was named Jacques and he lived in L.A. We were college freshmen from New York, with sick parents and empty wallets. I was the love interest. She was the gay one. The third as the odd-one-out. And then, we became a story. After the fall into designated places, we grabbed our new identities and watched Jacques play the guitar in a room filled with trendy, Minneapolis lesbians. When the music stopped, and the lesbians filtered out, my two friends and I went to say hello to Jacques. "Let's go out front and have a cigarette." he said, and all three of us followed him, like lost children.
Outside, we were yet again, surrounded by short haired, thick glasses-strew women, and their younger, sexier girlfriends. We make small talk with Jacques, and another man—the drummer—named Josh. I am nervous and anxious and unwavering in my fictional persona. Josh leaves and so does the third-wheel friend. I stay to smoke another cigarette and Jacques stays with me. We both want each other and it is obvious; only I am not drunk and he must be. We tell the gay friend to go inside and she does. "I really want to put my hands on you." he says. There is nothing I want more and I tell him so.
Strangers come up to greet him and he does not let go of my back. I put my hood on, and he puts on his and we move closer and closer to kissing. "How much weed have you smoked today?" he asks and I say none, because that is the truth, but I am not offended by his questioning.
We kiss and it feels like the time I went swimming at Coney Island and the red jellyfish circled my twisting body. I was not scared, and strangely unsurprised. I knew the jellyfish could sting me, but it didn't matter. They were there and so was I and there was nothing the other could do about it.
After the kiss, I left, knowing I would never see Jacques again. I felt something I had not felt in a very long time. I could sense the energy beaming out from inside me and all my organs opened and lifted. I was fixed. My emotions were no longer urged to constrict and tighten. I was not afraid to feel them or of what could happen if I did.
I was healed, finally. Soon after, I began speaking to my oldest love, and though I had no idea whether my heart would be broken once more, I did not care, because I was ready to try again.