Hey smoker. Yeah, you. Walking along the sidewalk, right in front of me, smoking your cigarette. For you, things couldn't be better. You're out enjoying your morning, filling your lungs with tar and your brain with dopamine. There's no-one around but you right? Wrong. There's me around, trapped behind your maddeningly exactly-the-same pace and the regular plume of sticky blue grossness expelled from your ash-tasting mouth. I'm right there, breathing in what has so definitely been inside of your body. It engulfs me, your foul affectation, catching in the weave of my coat. Filling my hair. Air is for breathing, remember? I hate you with such livid passion. But what can I do? Hang back. Cross the road. Stop to check my phone, give you a few strides clearance. When what I would like to do is find the nearest fire hose and open it up just as you round the corner. Blast that vile prop from between your yellow fingers. Wash that smug entitlement from your face. Water beats fire. Go find a dark doorway to smoke in, smoker. Otherwise one day, someone's gonna hose ya.