We Sat In The Dining Room
I had the box of candy cigarettes grandmother gave me. She lit her long white Virginia Slim 100. I pretended to light mine. She dropped two ice cubes into my Fred Flintstone cup and poured my apple juice halfway,
“That’s called, Two Fingers.”
She dropped two ice cubes into her Waterford medicine glass and poured it almost full with Jameson Black,
“That’s called, No Air.”
She took a long drag of her cigarette, exhaled a bit, letting the smoke cloud around her lips, then made it disappear into her nostrils,
“That’s called, The French Inhale.”
From the kitchen mother yelled,
“Delores, stop teaching him your nasty habits.”
I leaned toward my grandmother and whispered,
“Show me that trick again.”
+++++
When Father Would Drink His Johnnie Walker On The Rocks
I would drink my Vernors pop on the rocks. When mother would take her pills, I would spread my Good & Plenty out on the table, white and pink with my Vernors on the rocks. Mother would say,
“Oh honey, take the white ones before daddy starts drinking and the pink ones after he's had a few.”
I always listened to her and watched him: once he made his second trip to the bar in the corner next to the empty bookshelves, I would start getting the pink ones ready to take after he sat back down in my grandfather’s brown, cracked leather chair.
David Calogero Centorbi is a writer living in Detroit, MI. Recently published work in The Daily Drunk, Dreams Walking, Versification, Brown Bag Online, Horror Sleaze Trash, Anti-Heroin Chic, and Crepe & Pen. He can be found here on Twitter: @DavidCaCentorbi.