There’s an Irish pub in Boston called the Crossroads. It’s the type of place that, five years after the ban, still smells of cigarette smoke. Come winter, regulars hibernate on crooked stools; the lights stay low and the door firmly shut. But spring flips the door open and brightens up the place. The incoming wind scatters napkins and resilient smokers rejoice on sidewalks, thanking God for winter’s passing.
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