SMOKER

Aplume of smoke left his lips and dispersed in the air. The wrinkles at the corners of his mouth and the harshness of his cough suggested he had smoked for a long time. The fact that he did it out of view of his child, even though she clearly knew, suggested he was embarrassed by it or worried that he would influence her.

He claimed that he wasn’t a smoker. But he claimed a lot of things that weren’t true. The liar was older than he said he was and not quite as much of a catch as he claimed. Single, he claimed; childless, he said. But you can’t hide from the truth when the truth trolls your social media accounts, insists you spend more time with your children, harasses you for financial support, and reminds everyone what a sheer and utter cunt you are.

He was a charmer; a handsome, sweet, kind and loving man. He’d had his issues—a past he wasn’t comfortable talking about, a career that hadn’t worked out—but he knew how to hide them, to use them to his advantage and to keep them away from prying eyes. Smoker spent his days on dating apps, searching for a new wife to ignore, a new family to neglect. He preferred them soft, supple, sweet, and weak—all the easier to manipulate to his will.

Smoker wasn’t as bad as Neckbeard. No one was. Neckbeard was a pimple on the asshole of humanity, a despised, unwanted, eyesore that served no purpose and was grossly unappealing to anyone he encountered. The Queen of Instagram was vainer, more narcissistic, and if she had survived our encounter, she would have no doubt gone on to hurt more people, negatively impact more lives, and generally be as much of an obstacle as possible. Wannabe was the same—a societal drain who collected one-night-stands and STDs like children collect baseball cards. Smoker wasn’t on their level, but he was still a heavily flawed human being.

And a liar.

He finished the cigarette, stubbed it out, and then reentered the back door of his home, back to his daughter and their rare father-daughter evening.