Superstition (working title)

I threw the white lighter on the coarse red carpeting. He should know better, I thought. "Why did you do that," he asked. I couldn't believe that such a seasoned smoker would still be wielding a white lighter, and I'm sure my face showed my astonishment. "Give it back," said Kip, a look of contempt growing over his weathered face.

"I can't believe you'd still be using that stupid white lighter. You should know better. It's bad luck." I drowned what was left of my beer and took a long drag off of my cigarette. It was Cora's turn to buy rounds. Kip just stared at me, his eyes becoming more piercing as the second hand ticked on some alcohol-related neon clock which shone through the smoky din of the bar. Cora slowly rose and left before she became involved in the banter between Kip and me.

"Pieter," he said, "I'm not kidding around. Give it back." I look past him, into the bar and see that Dennis had finally shown up. "Cora's at the bar," Kip said, his gaze never leaving my eyes, no matter how much I look away. Dennis nods and ditches his affects, pivoting on his left and heading towards his entrance. He looks briefly at the lighter, and then at me as I shake my head no. He exits. "Give it back," Kip's stringy blonde hair beginning to moisten with sweat. This was nothing unusual, he always sweats when he gets mad, but we're both too stubborn to have this last for a simple two minutes, and we were not close enough to arrive at a drunken resolution.

We stared intently at each other for a few minutes, neither of us backing down. Some alternative rock song (probably the Gin Blossoms or Better than Ezra) began playing on the jukebox, blending seamlessly with the weekday bar ruckus as I flinched. A hand lay on my shoulder, the soft touch of interruption breaking my focus on Kip. A woman apologized; asking if I had dropped the lighter, no longer resting on its crimson grave of beer stains and cigarette ash. “That’s mine!” Kip said, quickly fidgeting in his seat to better access the trinket she was holding. I snatch the lighter before he has a chance, and with a quick thank you, I stuffed it into my pocket. She looked at each of us, slightly confused, and regressed to rejoin her group of thirty-somethings. When she left my line of sight, I spiked the lighter back onto the ground as if I had just scored the winning touchdown in some farcical football game.

“No,” I said. My eyes did not meet Kip’s as I said this, simply reaching behind him for my tattered brown sport coat, which was resting on the back of an unoccupied chair. On the table in front of him, I placed an unreliable clear-blue lighter: the kind that would be acquired by turning a quarter through a mechanism in front of a grocery store, if lighters were accessible this way.

“What the fuck is this?!” His face grew angrier by the second. I scrounger around my pockets for my pack of Marlboro Reds and remove one; two remain. I pulled in the sweet smoke, igniting the tip of my cigarette with the flame of my silver Zippo. I glance towards Kip and move the box closer to him, offering my fire. He slowly rose from his chair, ignoring my offerings of lighter and fire. He walked past me, my chair tipping foreword as he squeezed through my back and the wall. I saw him walking towards the lighter, determined to reclaim the unlucky trinket I liberated. My foot flew swiftly and landed atop the torch. He collapsed into the chair opposite to me and rested his head in the crevice his elbow made, bent and resting on the cool black table just beside the Newport ashtray. “Pieter,” he mumbled through his arm. I raised my head as to ask what, regardless of the fact that he could not see me in his current position. “Why won’t you just give it back?” I set my cigarette on the smooth groove within the rounded ashtray and look intently, choosing my words wisely.

“Get over it,” I said. “I gave you a replacement. Plus, it’s not like you don’t have fifty lighters in your apart: none of which, I might add, are white.” His head shifted as he reached into his pocket, grabbing his silver cigarette case, well worn from over a year of use. He took the last one and slammed the case shut, making a sound like a bell piercing through the raising volume of the bar. After he raised the cigarette to his lips, he grasped the lighter I traded. After six failed attempt, he finally ignited his cigarette in a certain self-defeat I knew would not last. He leaned back into his chair and looked on the ground, searching for the lighter which was still buried by my foot.

Cora returned with 3 bottles of beer, distributing them among the group. Dennis sat down and began drinking the burnt looking orange drink he started every Tuesday night with. I excused myself, heading towards the bathroom. Before I stood, I reached towards the ground and scooped up the white lighter. I had plans for it. “I’ll be right back. Anybody want anything else?” I didn’t expect a response, seeing as we all just acquired beers from Cora. “Besides you, Kip,” I said before he had a chance to ask for his lighter. I headed towards the bathroom and found it empty. I went into the stall and dropped the lighter, making a plunk into the dirty toilet. I flushed and watched the lighter swirl out of existence, never to be seen again