Rain rattles the rusted gutters of the small diner sitting at the corner of the block, enshrined with a bright pink bubblegum-colored sign. The tarnished bell above the door rings, as you walk in and sit at the counter, waiting for your morning coffee, straight black, never cream, even sugar. The smell of crinkle fries and greasy burgers wafts through the air, causing you to shift in your eggshell-white, leather swivel chair. You reach into the deep dark pockets of your suit for the cold capsule of metal. Your cold fingers find it and flick until the orange flame appears, lighting the cigarette hugged between your lips. With a heartfelt heave, rings of smoke escape your mouth and disappear, along with your cares.