One time I finished a cigarette but couldn’t stop blowing out smoke. At first, I mistook the whispery cloud for condensation. Yeah, it’s cold out. Yeah, it’s October. See the red of his nose? See the teeth chatter, the skittery gnash of that crooked top incisor? But then the tube station and the blast of heat on the escalator down. I cupped my hand around my mouth, breathed out slowly, and sniffed. Tobacco, and a bit of the white wine I had at dinner. My date was at first confused but charmed. Are you sneaking hits off a vape? A cigarette scented vape? Smoke leaked through my fingers. On the platform, he was still amused. In the subway car, the joke started to fray. At the fifth stop, a pregnant woman took the last available seat across from me. I tried to breathe less, but the smoke burned my lungs and the back of my throat. My eyes watered. I took three hacking coughs. My date and I watched a cloud of smoke glide across the carriage to mingle in this pregnant woman’s hair. She wrinkled her nose. The humor had been whittled to shreds. My date told me stop smoking. I told him I’m not. He said not to lie. I said do not call me a liar. He took my hands in his and tugged a bit. He said, face me then. That was how we spent the rest of the ride—four more stops. Staring at each other. Each other and furtive glances down at the smoke bridging the space between our bodies. See? I wanted to say. This is old smoke, knocked loose from sometime else. See my stillness. See the droop of my fingers in your palm? In the shade of his scrutiny, I relaxed.