FIFTY-NINE
He puts the next cigarette in his mouth.
It’s dry and stale. The filter sticks to his lip. The plastic lighter flares as he leans in, picking off a few eyebrow hairs. No matter. At ten cigs a week, he doesn’t smoke enough of the things to keep a pack fresh. He sits on a stool in a small cafe facing a busy backstreet shortcut for most of the scooters in
