N is for nicotine.

Back in the days when you could smoke in bars, the days when you used to smoke and I used to smoke on occasion too, you lit a cigarette for you and one for me and leaned back in your chair and sighed. You sang along to the acoustic jams of whats-his-name and pressed your knee hard against mine, inhaled deeply and exhaled just as deep, a strong and steady pillar of smoke rising from your cracked lips to mingle with the dense cloud above. When no one was looking you'd stroke the bare skin about my ankles with unsteady fingertips, whisper huskily in my ear before returning guiltily to your unfathomable daydreams. And suddenly awake you plucked the cigarette from my pursed lips, killed it in the ashtray on the table behind us, and told me we were finished.