Blinded, I am, blindsided.

I didn't see it coming, but, here I am.

Something I wrote:

Pull a little too hard, what’s supposed to be a slow drag. Let the smoke scratch your throat and inflate your lungs and choke you a little, on its way out. Let it make you a little lightheaded and sooth your fiery nerves, aloe on a burn. Let the old man in the cute, newsie hat sit down at the table at which you are standing, but don’t let yourself notice until he asks you what you smoke. Look a little startled, because you didn’t know anyone else was there, and naturally reply “I don’t smoke.” Listen as he tells you that he quit smoking but his friend from another continent got him two cartons for twelve bucks. Your reply hits him suddenly, like a cloud of smoke, which he’s watching you blow into the clear air. “You don’t smoke?” You are caught, red-handed. Let yourself be caught, red-handed. Pause to look for an answer and realize, there is only the truth. “No. I’m having a rough time with the boyfriend.” He lights up and tells you, “Well I am a marriage counselor so maybe I can help.” You believe him because you are naive. He follows up, half-chuckling, “Not really, but I am...” Pause. He searches past you for an age. “...72, so I know a thing or two.” Then he’s serious. “Don’t let yourself take all the blame.” You feel the familiar lump in your throat. Listen as you tell him to enjoy his twelve dollar cartons. Walk away now, inhaling smoke and exhaling relief. You have your walls. But secretly take the stranger’s words to heart, and don’t take all the blame.