Up in smoke.

As I try to catch my breath from coughing until my lungs felt like they were coming out of my mouth, I sit there trying to contort my face into the dirtiest look ever, one that can reduce a man to tears, give him recurring nightmares and have him beg for me to stop.

But I go unnoticed. The paper seems to have far more interesting things than me giving a dirty look. How dare he smoke and emit them disgusting smelly emissions into the air and make my freshly blow dried hair smelly? Oh and make my asthma immediately worse? He smelt like a walking talking ashtray.

I felt helpless. I knew I had to wait another hour in the same room and it would be a very uncomfortable hour is I spent it lamenting with him over why it was illegal for him to be puffing away in my face. I felt like sitting right beside him and fart while I pick my nose.




Then with bogey still attached firmly to finger on display and with the thickness of the air tainted with 'eau du hara', I would lean over to see the day's news highlights. What would he think? That I'm a disgusting person with a disgusting habit that's imposing their presence, habit and all, on them?

GOOD.