With every puff of smoke, my red lips curl into a disdainful smirk, barely acknowledging your pathetic presence. This isn't for you, this is my moment. My break. My escape. And yet here you are, uninvited, lurking like the worthless creature you are. I don't talk to you. I don't need to. My face says it all – disgust, irritation, pure contempt. You don’t belong here. You can jerk off quietly in your corner, unnoticed, while I savor my cigarette, but know this: I find your presence repulsive. You disgust me. This is your 3-minute window to pump, before I turn away for good.