He balanced on the edge. His feet in front of each other, the ridge of his shoe exactly on the yellow line. Relishingly he blew the smoke right out of the square. Ridiculous, he thought. A sidewalk chalked cage in which all smokers were to assemble, a bizarre arbitrary rule. He felt rebellious, albeit quietly, but still. A smoking lounge with glass sides and a roof he could appreciate, a hotbox where smoke was supposed to stay inside. This felt to him as a game of bully the smoker. A pillory, a scaffold meant to embarrass him into quitting. With a vicious click he lit his next. He looked around mutinously, as he moved to the long end of the rectangle. Ostentatiously he tapped his cigaret not in the ashtray, but on the corner of the smoking area, only just crossing the line.
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