Four technicians, working for a communications corporation, descended upon Cebu the other day to share the room with me. I do not mind the company, for it is quite lonesome inhabiting a relatively large room by myself with only an unintelligible gecko to converse with, and welcomed it cooly when thus informed by our host of their arrival. They come from Manila and speak Tagalog, a language I could feign to use as if it were my own tongue, and are a cheerful bunch. We could have gotten on in pleasant terms if only they did not insist upon smoking inside our stuffy room, despite the clear notice on the wall, every chance they get, and exacerbating the already stifling atmosphere- until our room resembles Padi's Point on a Saturday night (minus the band and beers). The bluish haze of cigarette fumes would loiter idly about in the air, refusing to go anywhere except inside my nose, and seem to be only interested in asphyxiating me. The room would reek of stale tobacco, even days afterwards, and would suffuse every fabric of clothing, bed lenins, towels, even bare skin with its distinct stench; and would hang stubbornly around me, most of all, like persistent flies to a carabao's anus- until our host suspected me of habitually spending nights in some beerhouse. I do not hate the act of smoking, being once a foolish teenager who learned of such vices (and have since ceased), as much as I abhor uncaring smokers who are not mindful of, and seems to be stupidly resolute in sharing their vile carcinogenic habits with, other non-smoking people- in public transports, in restaurants, in unaeriated rooms, even (once) in a pediatric ward. Wretched fiends!