Waiting to cross and the woman in front of me keeps coughing pointedly and looking in my direction. I’m the only person who’s ever smoked outdoors and the outrage has forced her into passive aggressive action. Burning my choices down to the quick, I want to feel for her wasted umbrage. Nicotine coated synapses like a Teflon shield of nonchalance, I exhale into the sky, a cumulous pall appalling the woman. Thin lipped and dagger eyed, she gives me another quiet in the library cough and stares, forcing me to smile and wiggle my tarry yellow fingers at her.