I don’t know myself as well as I should, and the serious personal flaws I do recognize, I simply label as “character.” Smoking, then, is my only vice.

I chew gum.

My wife asks, Take out the trash?— No.

Two minutes later, I feel bad; I blame nicotine.

Weeks pass.

We take a long car ride to visit her mother. I count the tenths of miles. I know that smoking will eventually kill me (the doctor’s words, not mine), but —maybe life without cigarettes isn’t really life at all--and I pull off the interstate, and into the rest stop.