So Pierre was distracted by his cigarettes and heartbreak, breathing it in deep and holding on to the poison. He'd cultivated the perfect technique for sucking that gas-bar totally dry of it's nicotine, pushing it himself from lungs to veins to brain, eyes dropping at the spin. 'Completely fucking addicted' he muttered. To his tobacco or his girl, I didn't know.

Slick hair was an irony against scuffed leather and dishevel. Bandana around his neck, a makeshift cravat. I could hear it; gentle smack of the lips, inhale, grey air rushing through the bronchi. Out it comes with a sigh.

'Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ'.