She surprised me by requesting the non-smoking section. I knew it had been years; I was just passing through town again, yet she just wasn't the person I thought I knew without a little bit of fire in her hand.

"I quit six months ago," she told me. "It was hard - breaking packs up, throwing them in the garbage disposal. I even had to lock some in a jewelry box I lost the key for. It's still in there, for all I know."

Even though she wasn't smoking, she was still compelling. The setting sunlight refracted around her dark hair, playing over the wine and her noticeably bare hands.

Smirking when she noticed my attention, she looked at my hands; at the band of skin where a ring would be had long since lost its paleness.

She nodded. "It seems to be a curse of people our age, doesn't it? To not be satisfied with our marriages?"

There was something else, but the arms of a waiter carrying plates broke the connection.

"Do you still think about him?" I asked, later, sipping on my drink.

"Oh, yeah," she replied. "You don't live with someone for years like that without getting them under your skin a little - you should know that. It gets so that, no matter how bad it is, you can't get away from them. It's like... it's like you're addicted to them. Like some sick part of you craves them even though you know in your head they're not good for you."

I had to ask.

"So how long ago did you go cold turkey?"

She didn't miss a beat.

"Three months ago. I had to practice with smoking first."

Later - make it hours, days, whatever you're more comfortable with, it's just important that it's later - I found a door in her house that was locked. When I asked her, she told me she had lost the key.

I won't look through that keyhole to this day.