White smoke curls past lips painted in the same unfathomable maroon of your wine. In your mind it curls around, pulls together the pieces, stops you from shattering against the rocks. The maelstrom has roared to life, reanimating the demons you thought you'd vanquished long ago. You are not okay. But for five minutes, in the haze of wine and nicotine, you can believe the lie, the one that says you are, and everything will work out fine. For five minutes, you are almost okay, and that is more than you can ask for in this moment.