You walk into the party that your friend begged you to join and see not one single person who looks vaguely familiar. Rather than attempt an awkward conversation with the bartender, you make a beeline for the balcony, the garden, or the closest open window, where you spot a few tendrils of smoke. Light up; the smokers’ circle is always there for you.
It’s a fleeting comfort. Everyone knows the facts about smoking. And if you’re one of those people who think it’s fashionable to puff languidly as you sit at a café in Paris, don’t look too closely at the image of the rotted lung on your pack of Marlboro Golds.
