Oliver recognizes the blue and silver Bell Atlantic booth a moment after he hurries past. He turns mid-step, puts his right hand on the receiver and slings the nylon tuxedo bag over his shoulder with his left. He holds the hanger in the crook of his index finger. Oliver pulls the last cigarette from the crumpled soft-pack in his shirt pocket, places it between his lips, and renews his grip on the telephone. He stands immobile and notices the autonomic adjustment of the pedestrians ebbing past his now-fixed position. “I won’t do it, I won’t call her,” he mutters, loosening his hold on the receiver.

Oliver takes the cigarette from his mouth and examines it. He sees the moisture from his mouth has begun seep into the filter. He pulls away from the phone and rejoins the quickening mass, tossing the jetsam cigarette.