He could see the whole city from the roof terrace. The wind swept away the pollution and noise, and it was just the two of them up there: his cigarette smoke and him. He liked going up there to relax. He took a look at his hands, in pain, and saw a small drop of blood on his shirt. Right away he tried to hide it, as if somebody up there would see and ask questions. It was an occupational hazard.
He inhaled the smoke and remembered he didn’t like smoking. He had taken it up as an excuse to go upstairs. Alone, without a single voice within earshot, for a few minutes he could be what he wanted even though he was still the same person.