I walked into the break room, burned out and annoyed after a hard morning at work. Something was different -- I could tell right away. In total defiance of the no-smoking rule, someone had lit up in here.

A tell-tale all-white lay on the edge of the chipped china dish in which my coworkers normally stashed leftover ketchup packets and extra forks. A ribbon of smoke curled ceiling-ward from its tip.

A crescent of rose-red lipstick had kissed its filter-end, a woman's loving kiss.

I looked around, puzzled. Who would dare? And none of my coworkers smoked, to my knowledge.

But I was alone.

Bizzare.

Then I heard her voice.

Coming down the hall.<> And she walked in, cell-phone to her ear.

New girl.

Gorgeous girl. Rich brown curls flowing past her shoulders. Eyes blue as the patterns on that china dish she was using for an ashtray. Blouse pink as a bride's blush, trim little skirt hugging her hips.

"Tried going in the hall," she said to the person on the other end of her phone. "Reception's just as bad. I'll have to call you back."

She walked to the table and reached for her abandoned cigarette.

But her phone-friend was apparently not ready to give up yet and jabbered some more. She pulled her hand back, leaving the cigarette there.

I wanted to see those lips close around the cigarette. But my five-minute bathroom break was swiftly ending and her phone conversation wasn't.

She reached for her cigarette again. Once more, the blabber-mouth on the other end interceded, saying something that apparently made her mad and she walked away from the table again, caught up in the conversation.

"I can't hear you," she told her friend again. "I really gotta go. I'm late getting back to work and I haven't even half smoked my cigarette....Yes, I started again. Your fault."

Finally, she clicked off the phone. Those long fingers reached for the almost-dead cigarette, cradled it gently, lifted it from the china dish.

I was staring. I knew I should act more casual. But she hardly seemed to notice me.

The all-white reached her lips and they opened to meet it, clamping firmly around the filter-tip. Instinctively she half-closed her eyes, as the smoke from the tip curled up into her hair.

Now she drew in. Her cheeks seemed to sink in upon themselves. The burning cigarette end shifted from dull grey to fiery red with her exertion, as the cigarette danced and then stiffened in her lips.

Still she continued to inhale. I couldn't believe a woman's lungs could hold so much smoke.

At least two, three, four full seconds went by. Now her fingers rose in a smoker's V, freeing the prisoner from her lips with an audible "pop." Her mouth opened and I glimpsed it full of cottony smoke, sucked down her throat as if down a vacuum cleaner shaft.

She held it in until I thought no human being could possibly stand it.

Then as great clouds spilled suddenly from her lips, she dropped the cigarette to the floor and crushed it beneath her heel and spoke to me.

"You'd better not smoke down here," she said. "'Gainst the rules." And she breezed out of the breakroom with a flirtatious wink.