Smoking Is Cool

I don't smoke. I've heard it's bad for me. But there's something about smoking I find appealing. Not the smoking that happens in shirt sleeves in the winter outside office buildings. That's just depraved. The kind that happens in movies. The kind that used to happen in bars and cafes—except when smoke drifts into the smoker's eyes and he squints because it hurts and he has to move his head out of the cloud. That's not cool. That's just an ugly addiction. But, but, if the smoke didn't drift into his eyes, if it wafted upward and a little to the side in a languorous blue ribbon, then, then you'd have cool. See how that's cool? And suppose he had a glass of scotch. In a thick lowball glass with a heavy base. On the rocks. But just three rocks. Rocks that are transparent and solid, their surfaces washed smooth and clear with just enough dents and curves to give them character. And he's casually leaning back, arm cocked at the elbow, the cigarette looking like it's part of his hand. And his face is relaxed, mouth hinting at a smile. He's about to say something important. Maybe he's listening intently to a friend. Or maybe he's alone and just enjoying the moment. Turning the glass slowly to look at the reflections and refractions. Or gazing at the small fire he controls at his fingertips. See how that's cool? Sometimes I wish I smoked.