Cuban Heat by Emily Chadwick

They say there comes a day in every man’s life when he deserves to smoke a Cuban cigar. A rite of passage, if you will.

My time came a short while after I had turned fifteen.

I was mowing Mr Henderson’s lawn. Now, that doesn’t really sound like a promising start to a story, but I swear it gets better. He came out into the garden to oversee my work, like he always did, standing on the decking like a general and smoking one of his fine Cuban cigars. A curl of dark smoke rose into the summer sky (that’s as poetic as you’re going to get, you know).

As I turned at the bottom of the garden, Mr Henderson fell to the ground. This wasn’t as dramatic as it seems, as he just kind of slumped as opposed to tumbled from the decking. But still, I was pretty shaken up. I abandoned the lawn mower (after switching it off, of course) and ran back up the garden, shouting, “Mr Henderson! Are you all right?”

There was no response.

I wasn’t really sure what to do – my lawn mowing expertise didn’t really cover elderly collapse – so I just rushed inside, grabbed the phone off the wall and called 999.

Once the ambulance was on its way and I had moved Mr Henderson into the recovery position (at the instruction of the nice lady on the phone), I noticed that Mr Henderson’s Cuban cigar was still smouldering on the decking. I was curious, which overrode any apprehension I might have felt about pilfering the half-smoked cigar. Was it really as magical and life-changing as my friends had made it out to be?

I scooped it up off the ground and took a long drag.

Then I coughed, choked, spat and tossed the cigar onto the ground.

Disgusting.