The Person I am Next To is More Apologetic than is Necessary

I’m next to this smoker. He is nondescript, and only my own habit pushes me to note his look. He comes in a bit under six feet and is of a medium build. He has a pair of khakis, and a grayish-green and a tie with a checked pattern on it.

As I pass, he briefly and deliberately locks gazes with me. His unsurprisingly brown eyes crinkle a bit at the corners as he presses his lips together in a thin smile. He gestures with his cigarette, and I realize he is apologizing.

I awkwardly shrug at him, hoping I am absolving him on any secondhand sin. Glancing back a few moments later, I catch him turning his head and politely blowing a thin stream of smoke to the side, despite the fact we are entirely alone on this street.

There is something strangely sad about this kind-hearted, if useless, gesture.

Here this guy is, risking life and lung for a five-minute chemical respite from his worries. Yet, this very practice seems to carry some sort of stress. How much does his concern over his carcinogenic dragon breath weigh on him? Does the nicotine balance this equation? Does he end up with a net gain in calmness, or is he more tense post smoke than pre?

I guess I will never know.

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