I don't smoke, unless I have a good reason to, and when I do, I just puff. There's something about the ritual that's appealing. Tonight was a good reason. It was supposed to be too warm for snow, but how often are the weather forecasts actually correct? Walking to the bus station from work was a light dusting--stepping off the bus at home: big fat wet flakes calling out to me.

So I sat on my stoop, cigarette in one hand, red wine in the other, imagining I could hear the sound of snowflakes landing in the infrequent silences between the passing cars.