Billie didn’t smoke. Not really, not unless she was drunk enough to say yes to a few drags when offered – knew the taste, but her voice was already husky enough, why chance it? offered up with a smile each time.

So. Billie didn’t smoke, not really, but she always had a lighter on her – hefty little Zippos that were warm against her thigh, or, like today, cold inside her little black purse. She’d stepped out for a breather, the cold breeze nipping at the hem of her dress a welcome thing.

She spotted someone patting down their pockets, and sauntered over, like a patron saint of smokers, dressed in all black.