I smoke. Blah, blah, blah, I know I should quit. But I ain’t gonna and this isn’t about that nastiest of habits. It’s about where I smoke most days.
I smoke on my balcony overlooking the little bistro on the corner. As Parissienes are famous for two hour lunches and even longer happy hours I have spent countless hours watching them lean into the joie de vivre.
As I type this, on my balcony, cigrette lit, I can see a couple enjoying lunch, café in hand, having an animated conversation about who knows what. The man, in his button down blue shirt putting his hand to his chest as he laughs at something the woman, spoon stirring the contents of her black espresso cup, just said. At the table beside them is a man, alone, donned in an oversized grey scarf (I really must get one) scrolls through his phone and jots down notes into his white notepad. I assume he is waiting for someone, but it is not at all unusual to see people alone.
The other night, aft…
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