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.

And, of course, it's not like you get addicted at that rate, the "rate" of the social smoker. And if you wanted to, you could do just fine without the appendage. Like a sixth finger. It might be nice, but who needs it?

Now, some of the women you date quite like the freedom, the boldness of the pack, the fun of the experience when they share it. But some of the women are smarter than that and can see through the mirage.

The smell is quite nice, particularly of cloves. Though it's in the coffeehouse you note such things. Not when your closet reminds you of the Druid. Not when you're jealous of your hydrangea plant.

But more significantly, it's not like they're going to give you cancer immediately. At least you hope not. And of course you cannot justify the risk. And no way is it worth the trepidation that the carcinogens have mutated your oncogenes. Even if that's scientific rubbish.

Or is it.

And just why did you call the American Cancer Society last week?

Just for them, the Man, to tell you how bad they are. Just to make sure that next time you "quit," you do so in a reasoned and informed manner.

Just to convince yourself one more time.

And it's not heroin, for God's sake. We're not talking about cocaine. And it's not like you couldn't be doing that either. There's no risk here of overdose. Of highs. Of dealers. Of addiction. Well, I guess there's a risk of that.

But it's not like there really is, unless you call social psychosis addiction. And it's not even like that, that you need a cigarette. And that chart your friend drew correlating the number of drinks to the number of cigarettes, with the threshold at two Heinekens, that's funny, and somewhat true, but statistically inaccurate.

You have control.

You can make choices.

You are willing to face the consequences?

Not really. But it's not a matter of consequences. You don't have to contemplate such things at The Cellar.

Joshua A. Kaufman's column appears on alternate Thursdays.