Five minutes. Ten if you smoke my nasty lovely American Spirits. Which I don’t smoke anymore, but I still believe in them. A cigarette gives you a small window of otherwise unadorned time. Five minutes.

It’s a bodily compulsion, and meditation too. An eroding habit and a secret store of strength. Because a smoker takes reason with her when she paces outside caught up in imaginary conversations. The cigarette gives a purpose to her muttering.

And yet five minutes. To be aware of your breath as it enters and leaves your body. It would be a worthy thing to do without the cigarette. I haven’t tried it. I’m afraid I’ll look crazy.