I was five beers deep into Dumas' Twenty Years After, right at the part where the four agreed to meet for dinner even though they were on opposite sides of contention. Porthos, of course, would choose the food due to his gastronomy, and the rest would put aside their affiliations for one night. I know it's rather douchey to consider any work of Dumas' to be your favorite, but the friendship within the Musketeers has always, and will always, be my favorite. That, and what happened next would forever sear the great work into my mind.
I stopped mid page to step outside and smoke a cigarette, as I was want to do. Again, another douche-like propensity of mine. I liked to think I was akin to Hemmingway, stepping away midbeat to let the scene build and stretch to its maximum. Really, I was just tipsy and didn't want to wait another few pages to smoke.
Coors in one hand, Marlboros in the other, I made my way downstairs to the front door, which opened as if automated. I blinked away the tipsiness and recognized my mother coming home after work. Glancing at the clock I hated, one that had twelve different birds that would caw and sing every hour, I saw the time and held the door open. "You're late."
She sighed as she entered, hair messily sticking out of a bun, over sized purse hanging from the crook of her arm, "The meeting ran long." She let the purse tumble into the entryway and kicked off her inch high sensible heels. "How was your day?"
I took in her frazzled appearance and smiled, "Definitely better than yours."
"Ugh," she rolled her eyes, "I need a glass of wine."
"Here," I said smoke break forgotten, "go sit down, and I'll grab you a glass of wine."
She smiled, bright blue eyes striking out under thin marks of eye liner, dimples framing full lips painted burgundy, "You're my best son."
"I'm your only son," I called over my shoulder and entered the kitchen. The fridge was mostly alcohol and leftovers. She was the best mom, but cooking was more of a chemistry experiment that always ended up in smoke and coughing for her. Four half drunk bottles of wine, seven more Coors, and two boxes of pizza. As well as an assortment of condiments stared at me from the shelves. I grabbed another beer, a bottle of chardonnay, and made sure to put it in a wine glass. Heaven forbid she drank an entire bottle out of anything other than a proper wine glass. To do otherwise was uncouth blasphemy.
As I approached her with wine she was set deep into the couch, eyes closed, feet up on an ottoman. "Here mom."
"Oh Jesus, bless you," she took the glass with chipped blue nail polished fingers, and took a deep gulp. Sighing afterwards. "A glass of wine, then a nice hot bath. That's what I need."
"You and your baths," I laughed. "Here, I'll go smoke and then you can tell me all about the drama." She nodded, eyes still closed, and stretched fully into the couch. Head and shoulders pressed back, toes pointed forward, black skirt drawing midway up her pale thighs, wine glass never moving. As if her wrist had a perfect gyroscope that refused to even tilt the glass.
I barely remember the cigarette. There are few cigarettes I do remember and all of them were after cigarettes, not before. An after cigarette you languish in, the pulses of whatever happened before ebbing and flowing while you turn over the memory of moments earlier. A before cigarette, you're in too much of a hurry. You pull and exhale, flicking ashes constantly, always quivering with anticipation. Now, I didn't know this was a before cigarette, but somehow I'm sure I smoked it with the eager desire for an after cigarette.
I came back in to the mirthful call from my mom, "Oh, waiter boy!"
I smiled, "Yes mom?"
"It seems someone drank all my wine," she shook the empty glass at me.
"Oh no," I said and grabbed the glass, "let's hope there's more."
"I'm sure you can find some," she winked and then settled back into the cushions.
