“You ever wonder when your last breath will be?”
“Shit, Stan, that’s morbid for a Monday morning.”
“It could come on a Monday morning. Or a Tuesday. Could be the same day of the week I was born. Wouldn’t that be strange?”
“Pass me the cigarette.”
I took another drag while Luke fumbled in the cold to warm his fingers.
“I swear it’s getting colder every year. Bloody climate change.”
I breathed out and watched as the smoke from my lungs joined the mist of our breath. Luke whipped the cigarette to his lips and inhaled.
“Look at it go, Luke. We’re here for a moment, form into something that we think’ll last forever and then PHEW.”
I pursed my lips and blew. The smoke and mist that had tangled together evaporated to non-existence. Luke shook his head.
“Humans aren’t designed to dwell on their own existence.”
I gazed at the two cups of brewing tea by our feet. Their little lives struggled to be seen as the steam rose to meet the breath from my nostrils.
“Isn’t nostrils a funny word?”
Luke sighed and took another drag.
“Makes me think why I find it funny? Why are some things hilarious and others just stupid? It’s a bit like swearing. Who chose those words to be bad words? Who decides these things?”
“Probably some committee somewhere,” Luke said while lifting his tea.
“And who gave them that right?”
Luke shrugged, trying not to burn his throat as he swallowed.
“We accept things too easily in this life. We never question. If anybody dares to raise their hand then everyone else throws them out of the group. Why is that?”
“Beats me, Stan.”
“Maybe it’s fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of where your breath goes when it disappears. If we can’t see it or make sense of it then we ignore it.”
“Then I’m going to be scared of you until I drink my brew.”
Luke took another sip and wrapped his hands around the mug to keep warm.
“I suppose it’s like having a voice,” I said. “Words are a dangerous thing in the wrong hands, so to speak. Revolutions start when somebody dares to open their mouth.”
“You better not start another strike, Stan. Christmas bills need paying, that’s all I’m saying.”
“Who cares about work? Who cares about the mundane? We should be caring about what comes out of our mouths.”
“All that comes out of your mouth’s hot air.”
“My point exactly. Everything we do in this life is like a breath of hot air on a cold Monday morning. We’re all just passing steam, Luke, just passing steam.”
Luke tilted onto one side and his face squeezed shut. The noise from his rear reverberated like a dying trumpet.
“Or passing gas,” he said and laughed.
I smiled. “I suppose our prayers to this world can come from two places after all.”
