ZIPPO

“Honey, have you seen my lighter?”

“Have you checked the couch? That’s where you found it last week.”

 And there it was. Stuck down behind the cushions, snuggled in with some old popcorn kernels and a ball of matted dog hair, his Zippo, in all its stainless-steel glory.

“Snug as a bug in a rug.” He leaned down, plucked the lighter out from its nest in the cushions and held it up to the light. “What’s up with you old friend? My pocket suddenly not good enough for you?” The Zippo did not reply. Nor did he expect it to. With old friends, sometimes words just got in the way. Sometimes it was just enough that they were there.

Looking at the scrapes, scratches and small dents in its case he realized he and the Zippo had been together through one wife, three kids, six grandchildren, two jobs and one tour in Nam. Hell, no wonder it was a little dinged up. But by God it still had the old heft, the old clunk when you snapped it open, the old rasp from the wheel on the flint and the old sharp snap when it closed. No damn puny plastic BIC with its tacky click and whiz-bang adjustable flame was ever going to replace it.

He slipped the Zippo into his pocket.

Jenny had assured him she would bury him with it, and he was sure she would. Because a deal was a deal. She would let him keep his Zippo if he gave up the cigarettes. And he hadn’t had one now for over 20 years. A man had to have his priorities straight and good friends were hard to find.

“Found it! You were right. It was in the couch.”

He patted the solid weight in his pocket and went to kiss his wife.