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 ^{(it's beta!)}

She smoked with the kind of languid, easy gesture characteristic to people of her class. What she did was only smoking in the sense that wine tasting was drinking. The basic idea was the same, but the actual execution was so different as to leave the perpetrators of the latter feeling combatively inferior, somehow demeaned beyond what their working class self-righteousness could compensate for.

Watching her smoke was more sexual than actual intercourse could ever be, with feelings that started - somewhere, and reached tingling through your fingertips, running lightly over your breasts, your thighs, and down the small of your back. Her lips quirked only slightly upwards, on the left side, to accommodate her cigarette. When she exhaled, they moved open in a manner that suggested that they were capable of inspiring sensations that, you would realize only later, in the safety of your own hotel room, no human was capable of feeling, and which you lacked even the proper body parts to experience.

The way she stubbed out her cigarette, however, was distinctly proletarian. The way the front legs of her chair hit the floor as her lean, violent body crossed the space to the ash tray reminded you that the magical lips were chewed, and the hand that now stubbed out a cheap, dark cigarette were broad, square, and red. Fortunately, she was a chain smoker.