It doesn't take long until I'm shown back to my seat; they're in the business of finding a spot for people like me.

Twelve feet by eighteen on the appropriate end of the bar, somewhere around twenty-five of us there. Do the math yourself, but it's tight, shoulder to shoulder. It generates the odd camaraderie of dissimilar people with a common vice.

My generic beer is at the table by the time I manage to arrive, and it takes me almost no time to be lit, and killing time. Such is the entire purpose of an airport's "smoker's lounge". The table had three already present for its four chairs, and there's some nudging and some shifting involved in my sitting down. By the time I exhale that first blessed puff, I have my seatmates as typed as they'll ever need to be.

The black man beside me, old enough to actually show crinkles around the eyes, and to be shaving his head as an alternative to advertising baldness and greyness. Reclining back a bit from the conversation already in progress, positioned to weigh each statement well as it passes, while still tossing in as many remarks as anyone. You'd sit a little taller, were you the one that was hearing him speak; he brings an air of gravitas to our entire spontaneous proceeding.

The white man across from me, neat mustache, short yet rumpled hair. Deeper lines around the eyes, but youngishness everywhere else upon his face. Steady clear blue gaze on the speaker, with nods to encourage; engaged in the conversation, giving and taking. I picture him being called over by his coworkers to be the guy that breaks the news to the young mother about the demise of her car's transmission. You'd believe what he said, and take it as a kindness, and my bet would be he's not the kind to misuse that.

The swarthy man in the remaining seat, shirt open to sternum, exposing a tasteful medallion on a chain; a decoration you know he'd be proud to talk about. An air of the sea in the set of his bones, in the way he can watch everything with only shifting eyes, without seeming the least bit unfriendly. His dentures' lower plate constantly is wiggling when he's not speaking, as if his mouth is always framing up the next joke. This is not his first bull session to pass otherwise worthless time, and he knows how to add in the mirth. You'd be drawn to smile yourself by the twinkle of his eyes, despite the fact he himself never laughs.

I was honored to be among them, though I held myself aloof. My suit, I think, rather forced that. They struck me as men who spoke less well around suits, and who were traveling in part to elude them. (I was just a living coatrack getting the thing from place to place, but that was a deeper knowledge than the setting allowed me to convey.) So I simply smiled, and looked at the rest of the room instead of them, and they were just as happy to deal me out and continue talking.

The place was walled with mirrors, to give the illusion of sufficient space, so seeing surface details was straightforward for anyone glancing around. My total time with these people in this room was going to be measured in minutes, and I'd already chosen the option of not speaking.

So I wound up joining the strange social game at surface level only. That suited me fine, inside my suit. There were far too many little brilliancies in all those lines of sight, in all the overheard remarks of my tablemates' conversation, to try to dig too deep into each one.

Tablemates are speaking of travels, all much more definitively than I'll ever be able to.. "You'd have to go to Port-au-Prince for that." Various Caribbean destinations mentioned. The old salt chiming in with "The nice thing about Miami is that it's so close to the United States." I envy him for his Hemingway beard, the slyness of his smile.

One table over, two collegiate athletic lads were chatting up two collegiate appreciative ladies. Scruffy little beards, tidy short haircuts on the one side; small smiles at boys followed by glances among themselves on the other. They're all old enough to know it's going nowhere, and young enough to enjoy the practice round. The ladies stub cigarettes simultaneously, and make a cordial exit; the lads step back to the bar to stay in play, leaving half-glasses to hold their scarce seats.

I count the room again - for every girl, there are four guys, somewhat over half of whom have facial hair. Sideburns down to muttonchops over here, full-blown faux Amish beard over there. I ponder whether my newly-shorn face is a betrayal to my kind, my newly-discovered kindred, but reach no conclusion before being distracted.

The ratio of the room improves as a lady is shown to an empty table with two seats. Despite how ruined the phrase now is: as she bows her head over her lighter, "nappy-headed" is what runs through my mind. I noticed she was having a mixed drink, the only one in the room, and that its pinkness clashed slightly with the whole opium den feel of the place.

Her nerves were obviously just a bit jangled, and the mirrors confused her first glances around the room. Her gaze lingered on me for a moment, and returned to me at the end, checking the cut of my jacket. I didn't take it personally: I was, after all, looking myself, and being the only suit in the room draws eyes. My guess from all this, and her practical spectacles, was that she'd only recently reached the point in her career where she began traveling for business, and that she was still trying to decide what it was like. Frankly, she'd expected suits, and I was happy enough to provide.

Swimming in the initial relief of a fresh cigarette, she leaned back and raised her eyes to the ceiling, away from the disorienting mirrors. Her light sweater fell away from her, revealing a top designed to be cool, a prudent layer for when you're not sure of your climate. I was almost certain that the curves that it showed were incidental to her intent.

Still, good enough for me, on that day, in that place. I caught the eye of a barback, and through her arranged delivery of one more, slightly better beer. I had the time, and what the hell.

I proceeded to simply drift on the conversation I wasn't joining, and think beneficent thoughts towards the lady I also wouldn't be joining. It was nice to half observe her over a beer, however, and watch as she dealt with the room, and listen as my table evaluated towns and islands half a globe away...

San Diego. Hawaii. Slight widening of my not-quite-smile as the verdicts were pronounced. All my tablemates had been places, and heard about others, and had seemingly chosen the topic of fun towns as the best way to kill an hour.

My eyes flicked directly towards her, to find hers skittering away from me in some hastily-chosen direction. She'd left her sweater disarrayed, however, and I took the opportunity to confirm my diagnosis of her form. I hoped she was enjoying her cigarette - she seemed to be getting comfortable, drifting into thoughts of her own.

Australia. Bahamas. Other sea towns I can no longer name. "Yeah, I hear you can really get your laundry done there," my transmission guy declaims when one is mentioned. A grave nod from one end of the table, and a mischievous wiggle of dentures from the other, confirm his opinion.

You guys should wear a suit, I'm thinking, and you could maybe even get dry-cleaned. I confirm this with a glance across the room that this time is half met, and I blow an appreciative stream of smoke across the new sight line she dodges to.

The athletes straggle back to their table, directly across from the lady, armed with new beers. (I'm two-thirds of the way through my new one by now - the pink drink only down half an inch.) My lady friend tracks them as they settle in, with eyes that are widening a touch.

She shifts her posture somewhat to face them, hugging one arm low across her ribs somewhat in the process. Between the way she crooks her elbow and the way she cocks her wrist, her arguably prudent top was made much more uplifting and dramatic, and the innocence of her intent much more dubious.

I watch her as the boys talk among themselves, and greet two young-motherly ladies as they are seated across from them... and fail completely to even look at my friend with the glasses. It all takes some small number of seconds at the pace these tables turn, and she never really had a chance. Still, her eyes lose some expectancy, and her arm falls back to her side, disarming the presented weaponry as her competition sits down.

My smile is probably perceptible as her eyes sweep back across, but I know she won't be looking around that much anymore. The conversation at my table having taken a strange jump to real estate, at that point I opt to finish my beer. My moment for this place has passed.

I make one final glance at her as I begin the delicate process of standing, and note a balding man in a dull Hawaiian shirt is being seated at her vacant chair. Two inches of her drink have gone away in the interim, and she was twitching her sweater back across her as would the victim of a chill.

I thanked all the players on that smoky stage kindly in my mind, as I stepped toward daylight to settle up. It's brilliant what a few restrictive regulations can ultimately cause to happen, in a space that's far too small, where the traffic is as high as the boredom.