We used to play the game endlessly in the coffee shops of New York.<\/p>\n
I still remember the last time that we played, and I beat all of our previous records. It’s a memory that I know will stay in my mind forever, and it gets triggered at the strangest of times, and by the strangest of things.<\/p>\n
It was her turn to measure, and my turn to smoke. We were sat at a metal table, huddled together for privacy.<\/p>\n
Are you ready?<\/i> she asked me.<\/p>\n
I paused. Composed myself. Took a last deep breath, filling my lungs with the conditioned air and exhaling every last molecule.<\/p>\n
Go!<\/i> she whispered.<\/p>\n
I performed the motion fluidly, just like we’d practised between us hundreds of times. The cigarette was out of the packet and in my mouth within about 0.3 seconds. A flame was licking from the spout of the lighter about 0.2 seconds later. By the time 1.1 seconds had elapsed, I was breathing in the deep, foamy smoke.<\/p>\n
I dragged and dragged, the tip of the cigarette glowing like iron in the foundry. I breathed out through my nose as I breathed in through my mouth, my head shrouded in the clouds, my visibility reducing to nothing.<\/p>\n
The seconds went by like hours. Everything became nothing, and nothing became even less. I didn’t falter for a second. This game wasn’t a cross-country race. It was a sprint. A long, hard sprint.<\/p>\n
A voice was heard to say Excuse me – you can’t smoke in here.<\/i><\/p>\n
…and stop<\/i><\/p>\n
I stopped and removed the cigarette from my mouth. A ruler was produced.<\/p>\n
She measured the length of ash hanging from the tip of the cigarette, and looked me in the eye with total adoration.<\/p>\n
Very impressive, Pete. You win.<\/i><\/p>\n