Cycles

It was Sunday night, actually Monday morning—nothing was open. I had one cigarette left in the last pack of a carton I’d picked up at City Club the previous Monday. I’d been at the computer all day, while A was at a soccer game, then watching Big Brother on his family’s big-screen TV.
When he came to the house, he told me to come with him in his car while he drove around looking for some smokes. The only option we discovered was one of the kangurus, who offered to sell us an overpriced pack in lieu of a couple of loosies. That’s when I decided to stop smoking.
My resolve lasted until the next morning when the tienda on the corner was open.
This is the kind of cycle we repeatedly go through, with A out of work and me on brief hiatus between semesters. He was going to use his treadmill to shake off some of the extra kilos. I was going to write more. We were going to gather a group of friends and travel to some of the less expensive sites I still haven’t visited after three years in Chiapas and he has not seen since he was a child.
Of course, he’ll get another job after he finishes his seminar in san Diego, and by then I’ll be teaching English again to teenagers who have little or no interest in learning it, but the coulda-woulda-shouldas will be didn’ts—likely or not.
The wading pool on the patio is murky. At least it’s not losing water anymore. I used it for an hour or so the other day. It wasn’t so much fun without the beers. Probably not too healthy either, as I could feel bits of grit under my feet. Still, it was refreshingly warm as I lay in it and watched the sky darken.
I think I wouldn’t smoke so much if I lived here alone without friends visiting, or if I had an interest in watching other people’s lives on a big-screen TV.
I really need to prepare my lessons for the electronic platform and stop futzing around with the paint program.
I should get dressed and go out to a bar and maybe hook up with a female companion.
I could clean out the pool and invite some people over—I would be a good host.
No, I wouldn’t—I never have been. I wasn’t at home, where I spoke the language, and here in Mexico, I sleep too much and smoke too many cigarettes.
Oh, god, it’s two-thirty! A won’t come by for at least another hour, and I just lit my last smoke.