It's the next day. Your head is stuffed. They were good, anyway.

Enjoyable. You deserved them. But you feel guilty now, as if you sinned against your body, and thereby against God.

Besides, they're not that bad. Only two. And how bad could they be if everyone else was having them? And they sold them to me right in the CVS.

They were leisure time frolic. Social diversion. And you only do it occasionally. But you do do it. And now it's been about ten in ten days. But only in clubs, pubs, etc. Guess you're going to quite a few of those.

You feel the beauty of spring. The wonderfully fresh air. But it is difficult to inhale. And the smell just isn't fresh, full.

But it can't be them.

Paul Simon sings, "Every day is an endless stream of cigarettes and magazines."

It's a small and manageable item, the mass-produced-filtered-low tarlight nicotine delivery system. It's quite an attractive little thing. And it's tasted fine since getting over that high school nausea in the pizza place.

It's quite beautiful, actually, the cartridge. The butt. The smooth, compact cylinder. A representation of, and attempt to display, masculinity? Perhaps. A phallic symbol? I think not.

A luxury. Especially to buy a pack for just two, or three, or five, depending on how many days it takes you to throw them away. But you would have paid more than $2.50 for a drink. Or more than $2.50 for a drink. Or more than $4.50 (price of Nat Shermans).

But it's an after-dinner thing. With drinks. With tea. At Pamplona.

It's atmosphere, and indulgence, and celebratory. It's a matter of appreciation, like a painting in front of which one feels the need to meditate, or a line of verse to be read over a few times.

It's not like I'm smoking on "cigarette breaks." Or chain-smoking.

Or even flaunting it on the streets at noontime. Or having it with dinner.

Or dessert. It's an after-dessert thing.