Her wrist was straight. Through the tips of her fingers there was a self assured posture that was inconceivable to second guess. What that hand held and its elegant rigidity spoke in naive confidence that it was all she needed. Taking a drag, gently blowing it out, and holding the lit cigarette between fingers of different length. The rest of her body and the rest of her mystique was concealed to me. That cigarette encompassed all that she was in that moment. A woman can be hard to look away from, but a cigarette is easy to ignore—I stepped on the bus with my own thoughts resurfacing. And if it hadn’t been for the stench of dissipating substance smoked away, I would have forgotten she was on the bus with me.