14 min read
Smoking Glasses
“Where are my smoking glasses?” Elizabeth frowned at her father’s request, not having made it one step out of the stuffy, dust-layered hole that was their living room. This was her third attempt at leaving, and once more had the confused man called out for her in that all-too familiar way, voice heavy with contempt. It was the same loveless cadence she recognised from the 40-odd years they had lived in the house together, though the energy behind it was now weak and smouldering, like a fire in need of stoking. She took a moment to consider the question. First the blanket, then the ashtray, now this. It was true that her father had been a rather excessive smoker in…