Within his mind he could think of nothing else: the feel of a cigarette between his fingers, between his lips, the taste of that first drag as the smoke hit the back of his throat. He craved it so desperately that his chest ached and his mouth had dried. He was trying to focus on the road ahead but he was irritated and anxious, and being in traffic made the situation no less dire. Ever present was the feeling of I just want to get home and yet he found himself sitting idly at the traffic lights, stuck behind a long queue of cars with equally irritated drivers who all needed to get somewhere despite them all going nowhere. Every single Friday was exactly the damn same.
This Friday stood out from the others on the calendar, however, because it was also Christmas Eve. He would have liked to have been at home today but, as it happened, research did not often permit the luxury of taking days off, particularly not when important grant deadlines loomed. The graduates had felt it too, their young faces dull and expressionless under the bright lights of his lab as they busied themselves with their work. The mood had elevated in the late morning over coffee; he'd heard their laughter rippling over the hum of his machinery as he'd stood outside and smoked in the rain.
It would be his son's first Christmas. The tiny boy, now only a few months old, would have no memory of the day later on in his life. He would not remember the crudely dressed white pine in the corner, the way his mother had decorated it and indeed the entire house, the tinsel that lined the television, the cards along the mantelpiece of the fireplace, the windows covered in fake snow. Nonetheless, he was a precious child, and it was important for him to enjoy the time of year as much as anyone else, cradled in his parents' love. They would still show him the gifts they had bought him, as rudimentary as they perhaps were, and they would still love his every reaction to them. Despite how he adored his son, Gero was thankful that he was not in the car with him, for the boy would often become deeply unsettled.
You can tell he's your son. He remembered his wife telling him. It's his eyes. He's yours; make no mistake.
There was still no sign of movement from the cars in front, and from the darkening sky it looked as though it was going to rain again. His grip was tightening on the steering wheel. The overwhelming desire to just get out of the car and light one up ached in the back of his mind and with every minute that passed it grew heavier. Without a doubt, getting caught in rush hour tailbacks was a form of Hell on earth. Amidst the garish headlights and the incessant honking that seemed to reverberate throughout the entire city, he closed his eyes.
Well, maybe next year.