It’s uncomfortable whenever I say those names. I can never speak them casually. A stroke of reverence always takes hold before the names sound through my voice, making sure I straighten up my stance and speak no ills. Things grow stern. Those who know me will understand why.

It’s uncomfortable whenever I say those names.

After my first proper cigar, I was excited to enjoy another. The question was where to get one immediately, when the plague had left most shops closed. Tobacconists were closed. They were open on the internet. But that would take too long. There is a wonderous romance involved in walking into a physical shop., making a selection, and knowing your choice is finally yours once the transactions are done. Online sales will never feel that real, just like a relationship on social media. A man wasn’t born for the virtual world. My selections were always based on physical perceptions. On look. On smell. On feel and touch. On taste. I needed a store.

When some brothers and I attended a liquor store, I asked the shop about cigars. The clerk was doubtful, but checked that tobacco drawer.

Oh. Right. I had forgotten.

Tobacco products were now all hidden behind the counter, prohibited from any form of visual marketing.

So much for my pleasures in physical selection.

But the clerk found something. He named three. Some flavoured stick, H. Upmann Coronas, and Romeo Y Julieta No.2. I chose the last, of course, based on my experiences.

I had smoked a Romeo y Julieta No.2 before. I had also smoked a No.1 and a No.3 as well. And sadly, I smoked these all not knowing how to properly smoke cigars. But from those harsh experiences, all I can remember is that No.2 felt the smoothest. I remember I fancied the whole No.2 stick. Even finished it. The No.1 and No.3 never met their ends. Terrible times. Maybe because the No.2 I smoked actually came out of a proper humidor. I still remember being confused as to why that tobacconist kept the cigars in a strange wooden box. I thought it was for fanciness. I know better now. And so now I can foresee what a smoke would be like when coming out of a shitty storage drawer under the counter.  

That’s exactly what this new Romeo Y Julieta No.2 experience was like. A stick not stored or cared for properly. I could taste the lack of life. The lack of care. Well really. All I could taste was charcoal and ash. I even thought for a second that this could be what Cubans were supposed to taste like. But I knew better.

Before she was lit, I held her. To see if she was okay. She wasn’t. She felt stiff. Hard. Dry. I squeezed her tight, to get a real sense. But all I could feel, all I could hear, was a crumble, a crunching from her insides. Her scent, though I could still get a sense of her true essence, was faint. A mere hint of who she was supposed to be. Disappointing. Yes. But this was our moment. And I thought it a shame to let her go to waste. Because she too, knew it in herself. That she had already gone to waste.

I don’t think it went the way either of us wanted. I was gentle. I was patient. I tried to capture whatever taste she had left in her. But it was already too late. The comfort of her skin on my lips could not change the truth. That she was empty. All she could do was burn. Burn herself away. That’s all I could taste. And so, a man could only leave her halfway. Lest they made the memory worse for them both.

All she could do was burn. Burn herself away.

I did get notes of her flavour. Barely there on the after taste. I could still get the slightest grasp of her original beauty. A fresh youth in a fresh harvest. But it would never override the corruption that overtook her soul.

Now she remains there. Half of what she was. A cruel reminder of what happens to beauty that isn’t nurtured. I’ll find purpose for her. One day. In desperate times. But even then may be too cruel.

-Daniel Roy