Lanes

 My last year of grad school the campus became smoke-free. It was culture shock when I first arrived, on the heels of my little straightedge midwestern cloister, to see so many students casually walking around with cigarettes hanging from their mouths. Lowsta would zip up to sketch rehearsal on a skateboard, a Marlboro falling from his lips.

Once the signs went up, I didn't think about it again. Occasionally I'd see someone, extremely stressed, power-walking to the parking lot to cram in a light between classes. Once it shifted I couldn't believe my professor and classmates used to stand in the garden puffing away.

A few months into the change I was biking down the street and had to maneuver around some construction. I had to pop onto the sidewalk for a moment to avoid a pothole and cautiously watched a girl in pajama pants walking nearby. I didn't want to knick her with my handlebar. As I passed she started screaming at me, "YEAH I SMOKE. GET OVER IT. IT'S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS." I was so beyond flustered I simply pedaled faster. I heard her screeching as I zoomed away, "THIS ISN'T TECHNICALLY CAMPUS. I'M ALLOWED TO SMOKE."

I was probably halfway home, whiffing that pizza place, before I fully grasped what had happened. I was staring at her, in an attempt to not hurt her, and she decided to digest it as judgement for her habit. I hadn't even noticed she was smoking, and I certainly didn't care. If anything I was feeling self-conscious for biking out of my lane.