Rushang Patel

I am not a smoker. This matters, because it places me permanently on the inside of buildings, staring through glass doors like a house cat while an entire parallel society flourishes just outside.

Over time, I’ve noticed something that may be obvious to everyone except people who don’t smoke: smokers appear to have a remarkably active social life. Not necessarily better, but definitely more coordinated.

Smokers always know where everyone is. They disappear from a party in pairs and reappear ten minutes later with new friendships, inside jokes, and occasionally someone’s lighter. I go to refill my water bottle and return alone, unchanged, spiritually the same.

There’s something about “going out for a smoke” that functions as a social spell. No agenda required. No RSVP. No icebreaker. The cigarette does the administrative work. You don’t have to say, “Shall we meaningfully connect for five minutes?” You just say, “Smoke?” and suddenly you’re bonding over weather, work, and the shared understanding.

And then there’s the sharing. Smokers are constantly exchanging things. A lighter. A cigarette when someone’s pack runs out. A light in the wind when someone cups their hands around the flame. These are small gestures, but they add up to something that looks a lot like friendship. By the third time you’ve borrowed someone’s lighter, you’re basically obligated to know their life story.

Non-smokers can bond too, obviously. We’re perfectly capable of forming deep connections. But we have to work for it. We need shared interests, repeated interactions, maybe a book club or a group chat that slowly dies over six months. Smokers skip all that. They have a built-in ritual that doubles as an excuse to stand close to strangers and talk about nothing until it becomes something.

I’ve watched people become best friends in a smoking area over the course of a single wedding. By the reception, they’re already planning a trip together. Meanwhile, I’ve been sitting at the same table all night with someone I went to college with, and we’re still stuck on “So, how’s work?”

As a non-smoker, my breaks are inefficient. I “step outside for some air,” which sounds suspiciously like loitering with hope. Smokers have a clear mission, a timeline, and props. They stand in circles that look accidental but aren’t. They rotate conversational roles with the ease of people who have practiced this exact formation hundreds of times.

Smoking areas may be the last remaining socially acceptable liminal spaces. Offices have them. Weddings have them. Even nightclubs, which are already loud, dark, and confusing, somehow require an extra outside zone where people can finally hear each other. Important life decisions may or may not be made there. I cannot confirm.

I suspect the real secret isn’t the smoking, but the permission structure around it. Smokers are allowed to leave. Repeatedly. Guilt-free. They’re never accused of being antisocial; they’re “just stepping out”. Non-smokers who do the same are “wandering” or “processing something”.

I don’t want to smoke. Based on available medical evidence, this seems wise. But I do sometimes envy the efficiency with which smokers manufacture community out of thin air and nicotine. If nothing else, they’ve solved a problem the rest of us are still workshopping: how to briefly escape a situation and make friends.

If society ever figures out how to give non-smokers a socially sanctioned reason to disappear in small groups, smokers may finally lose their monopoly on accidental intimacy. Until then, I’ll be inside, wondering what jokes are happening just beyond the door.