John decided not to quit smoking when he got lung cancer. The fact that he dropped the cancer afterward is immaterial. Smoke clouds a halo over his short-cropped hair, the pinkness of his ears, the peculiar lumpiness of his brow that is found in particular breeds of Englishmen. He smiles, and looks like a monkfish.

In, inside, away from the water before he grows scales. Is it raining? It feels like it ought to be. It was raining, or it's on the horizon. He wants to be inside, in the warm embrace of Guinness, or maybe some gin. He would like to be lightly soused. But the door opens into a kitschy hell. He realizes too late that it's one of those shops that looks from the outside to be a respectable (he refuses to think of them as 'old-timey') pub, but actually sells tea cozies and upmarket jumpers.

So John turns, and comes face-to-face with a kitten-eyed woman with a smile that could cut glass. He exhales tobacco in a barely-audible wheeze. He thinks he can see his breath enter her nostril. Is she young or is he old? Don't think about it.

"In the market for a decorative mug?"