On our way out of the Mohegan Sun yesterday afternoon after the Connecticut Sun upended the Indiana Fever in overtime to close out a disappointing 2013 WNBA season on a positive note, Michelle, our daughter, darted ahead into a gap into the herd of folks leaving leaving me with the lame and blue-haired contingent.
As I tried to accelerate to see her if not relocate her, I ended up brushing against a guy with an all-too-familiar aroma, that of a freshly lit cigarette. Make no mistake, as someone who smoked three and a half packs a day every day for twenty-three and a half years or so and who stopped cold turkey on the last day of September 1996, I miss cigarette smoking not only every day, but every waking minute of every day.
Didn't stop me from turning to look at him while offering 'sir, there is no smoking permitted here.' His eyes narrowed and his voice thickened as he offered sarcastically 'thank you very much, why don't you go (anatomically challenging while we both were walking) me?'
I smiled as I slowed and touched his elbow so he understood that I could (and the look in his eyes told me he wasn't happy with this knowledge), and to remind him I was very nearly a head taller than he, as I said, 'if I did, you'd never go back to sheep again.'
And I then left him to stand stock-still pondering how nicotinic acid can so severely dull your sense of counter-point and repartee. I imagine he's still there.