When I was in college, I lived in a house with four other women, all of whom smoked. I was the lone non-smoker — not that I was offended by it; I just found it unpalatable. They all had quit by the time we came back to school for spring semester and, one by one, they all started up again.
But none of them ever came close to another of our friends — let's call her Jane — whose habit was so ritualistic, so cool and so second-nature, it bordered on art form. Jane never entertained the thought of quitting. As if.
These Things Ain't Gonna Smoke Themselves (Bloomsbury, $12.95) by Emily Flake could have been subtitled...
Continue reading Up in smoke.
