At the office, he held a cigar between two fingers which he sucked like a patient on an oxygen cylinder. He did not realise how often he did that – more than seven within the space of the minute I had been there. He rubbed his face with his other arm as he loosened his tie and removed his suit. His shirt was soaked-wet. He folded the arms of his shirt to reveal the scar on his left arm. He sucked the cigar again. Only a piece of it remained. He took it from his mouth and brought it a little away from his body and looked at it closely. He mumbled something under his breath about manufacturers cheating people recently and took one long suck. When he puffed the smoke, it formed little rings in the air that filled the room.
It slid through my nose mask and stung my nostrils. I turned my head away and forced a smile. He gave me a weak smile and pressed the tip of his cigar against the glass ashtray that sat on his table to quench it when he realised that I was watching. Then he pointed the incompletely extinguished cigar butt at me as if he was going to say something. Another bout of odour pierced my nose. My throat burned. I kept my eyes on him and swallowed the saliva that had formed in my mouth.