Smokin'

Bill shambles back into the office after a week's skiing. His short, stocky frame is enveloped in a long winter coat which he shrugs off to reveal a sloppily-knotted tie and a frayed white shirt with a missing button. His balding head and face are red, still radiating the snow-reflected Alpine glare.
In his hand, he clutches his first - or maybe second - Nero's cappuccino of the day. Milk froth flecks his lips, or is it leftover sunblock? Sunburned skin? Impossible to tell.
He smiles into his scarf.
"Morning," he mumbles.
"Look what I just found in my coat."
He reaches into his pocket and produces a round and battered seventies-style ashtray, along with a strong stench of stale smoke.
It's still full of ash.
"Where did that come from?" I ask.
He smiles again, bemused.
"I dunno!" he says, plonking it on the desk.

Five minutes later, the smoky smell is muted.
"I got rid of that ashtray for you," he says.
I like sitting next to Bill.