A sly smile lighted his face. Diana Johnson sauntered out to the Gayfers smoking area. She stared at the sky for awhile - a dishwater palette veined with streaks of blue, and chutes of pale yellow sunlight, and billowing clouds the color of night. Then she disclosed that she knows a bunch of people who've quit smoking a dozen times. It's a fond companion for all occasions, a loyal friend through fair weather and foul.
People smoke to celebrate a happy moment, or to hide a bitter regret.
Whether you're alone or with friends, it's a joy for all the senses. I love to touch the pack in my pocket, open it, savor the feel of the cigarette between my fingers, the paper on my lips, the taste of tobacco on my tongue. I love to watch the flame spurt up, love to watch it come closer and closer, filling me with its warmth. This sort of thing was particularly common. Snyder's parents both smoked, in the house.