It wasn’t the last time I smoked. That came later – years later, actually –  my final cigarette so unappealing I said “this tastes like a hospital stay” and flicked it over the fence.

Nah, Menthol Weekend happened when I was still a smoker; somewhere between a social one and a ‘serious’ one. I didn’t need to go on smoko, like my workmates. And I stopped every summer, repulsed by the idea of filling my lungs with tobacco on a 38℃ day.

That being said, I still jumped off the bus early to buy a pack most Tuesdays. The same surly guy at the servo; the same dawdle home as I smoked the first two. Marlboro Ice Blasts were my favourite, but I could only afford them every other week. I didn’t mind too much, though; as long as there were menthols behind the counter, and as long as those menthols contained a minty little ball I could crush –  a ‘capsule’ I could ‘activate’ –  I would be content.

They’re banned now, apparently –  menthols. I wonder what Aoife would think of that.

When people asked how we met, I’d say at a party (“at my house! I didn’t even know her!”). But that’s not quite true. The embarrassing truth is that, while Aoife did come to a party at the sharehouse I was living in, we didn’t meet that day. I just saw her from across the backyard, in that cinematic sort of way that, if you’re lucky, happens once or twice in your whole life.

The party had been going for hours by then, everything taking on a drunken quality; retreating sun, muted colours. People were blowing bubbles. I was watching them dreamily, their prisms of light, when she came into focus –  the bubbles making a rainbow of her faded green hair. She had a rollie in her hand and another tucked behind her ear, and she was laughing at a joke I was suddenly desperate to know. 

It was cliche, really; the way I immediately fell.

“Who was that chick with the green hair?” I asked my housemate the next morning, feigning nonchalance.

“Oh, Aoife? We work at the pub together. She’s kind of weird,” my housemate replied, dismissively. Without even knowing her yet, I bristled.

A beat, then –  

“You working tonight?” 

“Yeah,” he replied, with a sigh.

“Shout me a pint and I’ll come keep you company.”

From the first –  the pint Aiofe poured for me, the fleeting look of recognition and, later, curiosity –  it felt almost ordained. The messages started at midnight. By four a.m., I’d worked up the courage.

hey –  wanna grab a drink next weekend? 

Three dots, winking and retreating. Then,

 of course cutie! x

I hoped she knew it was a date.

She knew. Our first date lasted even beyond the small hours. At the tiniest hour, I kissed her, or maybe she kissed me; by then, it didn’t matter. Only the best dates drift from their moorings, which is how we ended up at someone’s backyard bonfire, making out with ash in our hair.

Aoife’s mouth was as small as mine; her hands just a little bigger, nails chomped to the quick. Together, we were so soft. We started by the bonfire and continued in her room, three days passing like seconds. The things you can learn in 72 hours. I learned I was in love, already, achingly; I also learned that, rather than just being ‘weird’, Aoife was a mess. 

That first morning, we showered with a jar of instant coffee, smoothing the grains over each other’s skin. It was a great exfoliator, she said. “Doesn’t it feel good?” she giggled. “Not really,” I replied, doing it anyway.

It turned out that coffee showers were the only thing Aoife did with any concept of ‘health’ in mind. She drank too much and smoked even more; twice during those blurry hours, she fell asleep with a rollie burning in her hand. She didn’t sleep enough, so her body forced sleep on her when she least expected it.

On the fourth morning, I went home. Much as the nights were the best –  heaven, if I’m honest –  I couldn’t cope with another sleepless one. I woke to a long, rambling text from Aoife about the adventures I’d missed, and wished desperately I’d just taken a pinger or something. 

By lunchtime, she was wrapped in my arms.

It couldn’t last –  it couldn’t possibly –  but it lasted long enough to surprise everyone we knew. Six months, maybe more. There were tentative conversations about meeting parents; a growing number of sleepovers where both of us actually slept. 

I guess it spooked her.

At the end of her usual Friday night shift, she gently pulled me away from the knock– off crowd. I was laughing, happy; excited for the rest of our weekend together. One more drink, back to hers, bed, coffee shower in the morning. A companionable smoke in the garden –  two rollies for her, one menthol for me. “Minty,” she’d say, teasingly, after stealing a kiss.

“Em –  can we talk?”

I knew then. I didn’t need to hear the rest of her speech to know what it contained. Even now, my only recollection is what she said as I sat, hunched and sobbing, on the curb: “you’re too beautiful for me, anyway.”

A total cop– out, I thought. 

The only thing that quelled the tears, however briefly, was the flick of my lighter and a deep, shuddering drag. I couldn’t sleep; couldn’t bear to lie in a bed we’d only just shared. So I slumped the night away in a rusty chair on the verandah, activating and reactivating that fucking capsule. 

The night turned into tomorrow and then tomorrow became Sunday. I barely moved from the chair. I knew I was pathetic. I knew that even my housemate –  perhaps the most anodyne person I’d ever known –  was concerned. But at 26, it seemed it was finally happening to me: physiological, diagnosable, heartbreak. 

When I healed enough to make jokes, I’d say that one weekend probably shaved ten years off my life. Three hours of sleep. Two and a half packs of Ice Blasts. One last look at Aiofe, as she got in her car without me.

During the healing period, I met him (a little early, perhaps). The person I would go on to marry. I had known, for a long time, it could go either way. 

His eyes were as beautiful as they were kind. He liked coffee the way you’re supposed to; drunk from a cup. We loved each other in a way that roared, burned, and smouldered. When we were sure –  really sure –  that the fire wouldn’t burn out, we got married.

The morning I woke up as a wife, there was a message in my inbox. I hadn’t heard from her in years. I didn’t even know where she was living; what city, or country.

hey cutie, heard the news. I just wanted to say congrats and how happy I am for you. I found love too. It’s the best. A x

It was so…her. So offhand, so careless, but still –  maddeningly –  sweet. Did I reply? I don’t even remember.