I smoked consistently twice in my life. I smoked three or four cigarettes a day for a couple of years in college. In college everyone thinks they're immortal. Two years later, I quit in the course of an argument with the man I lived with. I accused him of lack of discipline and he replied, in effect, "Sez the smoker." I stopped that night and didn't smoke for years. I don't think he ever did quit. He's now recovering from a serious stroke that left his language skills and memory seriously impaired.

The second time was in New York, back in the days when you could smoke in your office. When I checked in each morning, my boss offered me a cigarette. I took it to be companionable and because I felt that a cigarette couldn't do much more damage than the foul air. In the course of the day I had one or two more, though I hardly ever smoked more than half. I quit because I moved away and the five minutes of companionship was no longer there.

I smoked a little for the months around Lydia's moving in. It was one of the few things the two of us shared during that period and initially I wished to connect any way I could. Cigarettes are now inseparable in my mind from the nightmare of those months. I haven't had a cigarette since February, and expect I never will again.

I don't need the lecture about how I shouldn't have done it. I know.