For fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities.

White wisps wafted towards the sky. Transparent and weightless, spiraling out through the sunroof. Through the mist you could see a faint glimmer. Or miniaturized apocalypse. It's all about perspective, they always said. With a careful flick of his hand, he dusted the ash off. And wished. There was time, after all. Almost enough.

Silently, she looked out the glass at the street ahead. And wished. If only there were more things he handled as delicately as his cigarettes.