He drew on the freshly lit cigarette. It seemed to be good stuff, not expensive, but certainly packed a punch. He took the smoke inside him, deep inside, as deep as he could. Memories flooded him now. The beach, the breeze, playing with his brother, his mother’s delicious cooking, memories which seemed much like the smoke he had just inhaled, fleeting and painful to hold in for too long. He exhaled. All those memories gone. All gone in a puff of smoke.
He drew again, more memories. Dreams of fame and fortune, working at the station, drinking with Alfredo, and of course Maria, sweet beautiful Maria.
How had she slipped his mind? Was he going mad? Was this finally getting to him now?
Another puff of smoke; and clarity once again.
The tears had started to form now. He thanked his stars that he was blindfolded.
He wondered why he chose the cigarette over the rum. He wondered why he had just thought about this.
“Anything else”, the now familiar voice of the constable said impatiently.
He nodded. Nothing.
This is my first ever attempt at fiction. Go easy on me.