what is a smile?

My neighbor across the street is at the piano again. His window is closed and the sound of a melody in a minor key only faintly mingles in the air with the leftover rain dripping from drainage pipes. Clean white balloon clouds are moving quickly over a clean deep sky, and I like to stand at my window and watch the clouds mobilize until I think I can feel the motion of the earth. Until I feel like my apartment building, my street and I are moving and the clouds are standing still. The same way I like to stand and watch the luggage belt at the airport until I am dizzy.
One of those empty, beautiful nights in which I feel nothing, but think that I ought to. What is it? Saturday? Sunday? It really makes no difference to me. Either way, I feel like staying in tonight. Maybe with a glass of wine.
Standing outside my friend’s vintage clothing store before returning home earlier this evening, I struck up a conversation with another loiterer. Or he struck one up with me. He was tall and handsome, well dressed with a sort of unfocussed energy that gave him away to be quite young. Twenty or so. Women, he wanted to know about women. How are women in the States? Are there a lot of them and are they sexy? Then his next question was about balloons. “Are there a lot of balloons in New York?” I looked at him, puzzled and so I suppose he thought I didn’t understand the word ballon. So he took out his cell phone, where he had several photos stored and showed me. He scrolled through multiple pictures of balloon arrangements. Balloons for birthdays, weddings, openings… bar mitzvahs?... balloons that look like flowers, like people, like clouds and telephones.
“You see this is what I do.” He said, “And I want to go to New York. Do you think I can?” I told him I didn’t see why not. “New York est dur,” I warned.
“Do you want to study in the States?” I asked.
“No, I don’t need to study for my job. You see, I just make balloons.” Again he showed me his cell phone and scrolled through more photos, balloons in swimming pools, on rooftops, tied to motorbikes. “I see.” I said.
A woman standing near us on the sidewalk, whom I knew from having encountered her many times in the neighborhood interrupted, “Do you have a cigarette?” She held open an empty cigarette packet waiting. “No, I’m sorry.” I said, “I only have rolling papers,” said the balloon youth. The woman’s voice changed to a sort of high-pitched whining, “S’il vou plaît s’il vous plaît s’il vous plaît…” We turned our backs and headed into the vintage shop where we tried on some giant sunglasses and winter hats with fur earflaps. A few minutes later, I drifted out of the store and headed home, pulling my regular French exit without saying goodbye. Saying goodbye can be such a hassle, especially when you have to kiss everyone on the cheek two times. A French exit is much easier than a French goodbye.
On the street, a man asked me for some change, which I didn’t have. Reflected to myself that I do however currently have a roof over my head at night and life could be much harder than mine. Another street bum passing turned to me and said, “Tu dois sourrir. A smile is much nicer.” What is a smile anyway? Is it something we do when we are happy, or the greatest way to cope with pain?