/lit/ - Literature

Wassup /lit/,
I am in the process of writing a novel. I've got the plot down and some really interesting secondary characters. The thing is I'm having a hard time making my character likable. I'm afraid that readers won't be able to identify with him and thus won't be compelled to find out how his story progresses.
Here is the first draft of the prologue. I'm not so interested in corrections to the prose as I've already noticed a lot of things that I'd like to change. What I'd like to know is whether you feel anything for the character, would you continue reading?

Here we go:
“That one.” Ash pointed at the pack closest to the ageing tobacconist. The label was unknown to him but he cared not. He pre-emptively withdrew a few bank notes from his wallet and placed them on the counter. The shopkeeper leisurely handed over the cigarettes, picked up the money and began to count.

Ash was already walking away, hands frantically working at the plastic wrapping. “Your change sir!” was called out at his back as he walked away.

“Keep it!” he shouted in reply. He didn’t care about the coins. All he wanted was the smoke. He stepped out of the small shop while removing the shiny paper covering from within the packet. He pulled out a single cigarette and placed it between his lips.

He lit up, protecting the flame from the wind with his hand and inhaled. Satisfaction filled his lungs as the tobacco burnt. He hadn’t smoked in three years, three wonderful love-filled years. But that’s all over now he thought, fuck her, fuck everyone.

He looked at the pack, it was special, the perfect blend of nicotine, tar and whatever else cigarettes were filled with these days. He internally declared his newfound devotion to the brand which he had never previously tried. He tossed the paper-plastic melange still contained within his hand into a conveniently placed dustbin. “No point in littering, even if everyone else is a shithead.” This he said aloud, perhaps too loudly. Ash placed the pack into an inner pocket of his leather jacket and began walking, eyes fixed on the pavement in thought.

He couldn’t tear his mind away from her. I love her, he thought. But she doesn’t give a shit about me, nobody does. He knew that he should try to distract himself; the wound was still too fresh. He began counting the pavestones as he walked. He thought about how each pavestone he counted carried him just that much further away from her.

Continued...