We had a thing for smoking rooms. Though we practically spent entire weekends wrapped around each other, I now realise that our most profound conversations took place in a public smoking room. Almost as if sharing a cigarette made the conversation more magical. Maybe it did, we’ll never know.
We soon found ourselves going back to restaurants that served mediocre food but had a cosy smoking room. The tiresome process of picking out a place for a date brought an inevitable ‘only if’ along — only if Zomato came with an ‘epic smoking room’ filter. But since wishes aren’t horses, we’d never get to ride.
My favourite memories of our favourite smoking rooms are as blurry as the rooms themselves. Like that night when we looked at the ocean through the glass wall, our glasses of wine in our hands, and cackled about how the bustling city was definitely the third-wheel in our relationship. Or when, in the wee hours of a Saturday morning, we stole a kiss in the cramped room of a deafening club and giggled like two loopy teenagers.
But there’s one that tops my list of favourites, hands down. Unlike most smoking rooms we’d been to, this quaint parapet saw just the two of us the entire evening. With no external lighting, we held hands in pitch darkness while the flame of our shared cigarette served as the only source of light. Almost as if on cue, we spotted a tiny floating candle lying around in a pile of rubble. He lit it and right there was our candlelit smoke.