"Smoking is not permitted in this building."
The corner of his mouth turned up in something that was half sneer, half snarl. "Fuck you," he said, and turned back to face the mirror.
I stood, watching him. He watched me in the mirror. Suddenly, he couldn't take it anymore. "What!" he yelled as he spun to face me.
Calmly, I repeated myself. "Smoking is not permitted in this building."
He took two steps and we were face to face. Slowly he raised the cigarette until it was all that separated our faces. With only the sound of his heavy breathing marring the silence of the tiled room, I waited. Then he turned, stomped his way to the ashtray that still remains set in the wall below the "No Smoking" sign and smashed out his cigarette. He glared at me one last time with a hatred that burned his eyes red -- and then left.
And as I relaxed, I allowed myself a brief smile of triumph.
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