I say let’s do it. You say you have to smoke first. You go outside with your pack of cigarettes and lighter. I get comfortable on the couch and start reading a short story. You come back inside and say you’re ready. I hold up a hand and say five more minutes. You say you’ll shower in the meantime. Down the hallway you sulk. The water jerks on and I finish the story with time to kill. I wash a few plates sitting in the sink, a fork and a knife. You walk into the kitchen with wet hair, faded boxers, bare feet, and that orphan frown. Okay, I say, I’ll be right there. When I meet you in the bedroom, you’re watching stand-up comedy skits on TV. Now? I ask. Three minutes, just three minutes, you cackle with cruel laughter. This is how we build resentments. This is why I don’t even want to touch you. When you’re finally ready, I’m so fed up by the wait, your sulking, our excuses; I’m ready to build a bonfire of your cigarettes.