Since I can't seem to find a node praising this combination, I'm going to write it myself.
I don't know the magic behind this combination. Maybe it's the knowledge that two vices are coming together to wake you up. Maybe the coffee eases the sore throat you get from sucking down a factory-made cigarette. I don't know. What I do know is this merrits a story.
I rolled over out of the nest of blankets. My hand slapped blindly for the alarm clock, which was silenced in short order. I transferred into my wheelchair and moved into the kitchen. My finger punched the power button on the coffee pot, and fumbled in the drawer. I flipped up the lid of the cigarette packet with my thumb and slipped a coffin nail out with my lips. The long white cylinder dangled from the corner of my mouth. Glass clinked against the counter as I set my ash tray down. The flicking hiss of the lighter was repeated four or five times, as my hand strength and coordination leave something to be desired.
My first drag is taken as I pour the coffee, adding two tablespoons of chocolate creamer and one tablespoon of hazelnut creamer. I simply call it a Rochet coffee, in honour of the truffles that I love.
I stir in a small spoonful of sugar, then wheel over to the table and lock my brakes in place. I clasp the ciggie between three fingers, pointer, naughty and thumb, to hold it steady. My lungs protest for a second, then relax. I feel the warmth of the coffee, the slight warmth from the cancer stick, and hunch over the table.
My fingers twist off the cap of a pill bottle, as I delicately tap an ash into the ash tray. I swallow the pain pill and retrieve my forbidden vice from the holder, and swear under my breath. It seems that I accidentally stubbed it out when I tapped the ash. Another round of screwing with the lighter, then it's lit again. Two more drags, it's half-finished. I purposefully stub it out and stare out the kitchen window, at the rare sight of snow covering the ground, turning the world beyond the glass a pure frosty white. I brush my hair back from my face, tucking it behind my ear with one hand. It's getting long, but it's sort of ragged. I'll have to trim it at some point.
The tv is off, for the moment. The only sounds are the blathering from the radio on the kitchen counter.
Just for a moment, all is well in my inner Zion.