A Letter from Paradise, Part 2

    2. The Old Familiar Places

    On that first breathless day after work (was I tired? Me? Naaah!) we
decided to do it up right. We strolled over to the Hyatt on Capitol Square.
Its Plaza restaurant was pretty good (for a berg like Columbus) in my world,
so how bad could it be here?

    As I approached the Maitre 'd, out of habit I said, "A smoking table for
two, please." His squinted as though I had asked to be seated in the men's
room.

    "You may 'ave any free table you wish, m'sieu. Ashtrays will be provided
and replaced as necessarie." I gave myself a mental slap. Smoking sections? We
don't need no stinkin' smoking sections!

    Laurie and I were seated at a table by the windows overlooking the square
(which is no square-it's just a street). Back in the bad old place, we'd have
been at a table by the kitchen door...or at the bar.

    It was a strange and wonderful experience to sit in a familiar place in
such changed circumstances. Before today, if this much smoke had been seen in
the restaurant, someone would have been dashing in with a fire extinguisher.
Most tables were occupied either by couples or the usual, suited expense
account crowd, and smoking was occurring anywhere eating was not...and in some
cases where it was.

    One thing I would learn about my new home was that with smoking so
prevalent, women in particular felt a great need to individualize their
smoking styles...to stand out from the throng. My incessantly roving eyes
noted some who were "unconscious" exhalers, taking a drag and letting the
smoke come out at it willed, gracefully dotting conversations, or slipping out
through nostrils over the course of many breaths.

    More interesting was an Hispanic beauty who was definitely smoking "con
brio." Her slender all-whites were 160mm at least! As she lit up, she gazed
intensely into her husband's (or whoever's) eyes as if to hypnotize him.
Anyway, she hypnotized me and I was three tables away. She took a
cheek-hollowing drag which lasted long enough to read the entire menu, removed
the cigarette, and let some uninhaled smoke escape her open mouth, like cotton
balls accumulating before her lovely face. Then she performed a perfect French
inhale, capturing every wisp of smoke in front of her. Her mouth-only exhale
spanned three breaths, billowing endlessly around her and her table-mate.
After that, I couldn't see her very well. It was too cloudy..

    I was also pleased to see that many women (and a few men) were using
holders. They came in all shapes and sizes, from the modestly short to the
"Holly Golightly" model. Women using the latter needed to get their lights
from someone across the room.

    With a camcorder here, just in this one restaurant, I could have made a
mint back home.

    "Hey Grant, eyes front!" Laurie said, "or I'll get the idea you'd rather
be at another table." Her smile showed she understood, the dear. "I got behind
schedule on our stroll over here. Help me catch up."

    Laurie and I both needed to increase our nicotine intake for our new jobs.
Improves concentration and memory, you understand. She produced a pack of B&H
menthols (same brand as I smoke), took two, and handed one to me. I looked for
a light, then remembered all I had was my magic Zippo, and the magic was all
gone. Laurie produced her stolen Bic and lit us both.

    Laurie can hold her own in any group of smokers in any world. Part of it
is her looks. She's about 25, with straight, pale blond hair to the middle of
her back, where it curls under attractively. Bangs cover half of her high
forehead. She can wrap that hair around her face and shoulders like a cloak
and often does. Just now she shakes her head prettily to keep it out of the
fire.

    Her face is a smooth, rounded oval, skin pale and creamy, a little like
smoke itself. Her eyebrows are blonde and thick, with a lovely arch to them.
Her green eyes are enormous, her lashes naturally long and heavy. Her nose is
slightly upturned, giving her a girlish appearance (and a perfect angle for
viewing nostril exhales!). Her mouth is narrow but the lips are full and
everted (most of the skin shows outside-like the all-girl band on Palmer's
video "Addicted to Love"). The kind of lips born to hold a cigarette and blow
smoke.

    Her figure (what I could see of it-too much to hope that public nudity
would be a part of this world, too!) was very ample above and below,
suggestive of some lingering baby fat in just the right places. She'd never be
a supermodel with that figure, but then I have no desire to sleep with
broomsticks, myself. It's too much like riding a bicycle across railroad
tracks.

    The capper is, of course, her smoking style. For this first cigarette, she
double drags almost every puff, since she's trying to play catch-up. As she
starts that first drag, cheeks caving, hey eyes go all dreamy and unfocused,
like she's having a quiet orgasm. I've seen this effect before, and I have to
clamp down on myself to avoid the most premature of all ejaculations.

    After she completes part two of the first puff, she begins her exhale.
What words can I use to describe it? Voluminous comes to mind. Endless also,
but that's been overused. Think of scattered cumulus clouds on a bright
summer's day, translucent yet substantial, reflecting the golden light of the
sun. That doesn't come close, but perhaps you begin to get the idea.

    After each puff, smoke emerges copiously from her pouting lips and
nostrils (not pouted). Like most smokers in this world, Laurie makes no
special effort to exhale away from me, turning her head just enough to give me
a slight profile view. I rejoice in the enveloping clouds of our mingling
exhales.

    We each went through three cigarettes in this manner in something less
than fifteen minutes. As the smoke accumulated thickly around us (it seems
there was no special ventilation to clear smoke here), I found myself out of
habit looking around to see who we were pissing off. One just does not smoke
like this in public! In any restaurant back home, it would certainly have
drawn a whispered comment from the waiter to tone it down a little.

    I needn't have bothered. No one here gave it a second thought.

    I know you're all anxiously waiting for my review of the food. Sorry,
friends. I don't remember what either of us ordered or how it tasted. Try to
forgive me. It was, though, just as expensive as ever.

    One other incident bears mentioning. When we were halfway through our
dinners Laurie set down her silverware and reached for her pack of cigarettes.
I did likewise, never wanting to miss a "B&H moment." Before we even got the
smokes going, our waiter silently appeared and whisked our plates away.

    "Hey, wait! I'm not..." I said, but he didn't seem to hear me.

    "Don't worry, silly. The food will be back. He's just taking it to keep it
warm for us while we smoke." She batted her large eyes mysteriously. "They do
that in all the better restaurants. If you want to keep eating while you
smoke, just tell the waiter when you order. Me, I like to concentrate on one
pleasure at a time."

    Since Laurie had a magic Zippo like mine, I had assumed she also came from
my old, anti-smoking world. However, she seemed to know a hell of a lot more
about how things worked here than I did, and enjoyed displaying her superior
knowledge. Women like that kind of edge. Men too, I guess. In any event, she
wasn't tipping her whole hand...yet.

    Sure enough, when we were done smoking, the food reappeared, nice and hot.

    Somewhat later, as I slipped my Visa in the check folder, praying it would
work (it did), Laurie looked up and asked "Well, what now?"

    "Ummmm...," such an open ended question left me twisting in the wind.
Tomorrow was Friday, which meant an early get-up. After all I'd been through
that day, I really didn't feel like hitting the bars, despite my insatiable
desire for more smoking sightings. So I shrugged as if to say "What do you
think?" Ping. Ball in your court, Laurie.

    "Let me put it another way," she continued. "Your place or mine?"

    Bingo! I thought the attraction was mutual, but you can never, ever be
sure ("Date rape!" she cried). "Yours. Mine's a pigsty, if it's even still
there."

    That settled, we departed. I should draw a veil of privacy across the rest
of the evening...

    But naaah! What's a little kissing and telling between universes? Put the
kiddies to bed, my friends, and let's press on...

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