The Lawbreaker

By J. F. Smith

The man sat in a cordovan chair. It took him three tries to prop his cane between the chair’s low leather arm and a brick wall before it stayed put. The air was heavy with ground coffee and baked sugar. Comfortable. Familiar. When the man broke that predictability with a soft flick and an exhale, every patron stared at him.

“Sir?” The barista’s lips were the color of dried latte foam. “You can’t smoke in Starbucks.” She, too young to have ever smoked in Starbucks.

“No ashtrays?”

“Sir, it’s 2015.”

The man rested his hand on his cane. “Worth a try.”