one was expensive and smooth and glorious. it tasted of vanilla beans and fillet mignon.
the other cost $1.75. it came from behind a locked wall of plexiglass in walgreen's and left me hacking like don draper on the morning after he won that big award that led to his picture being printed in the paper, which resulted in his long-lost brother showing up at sterling-coo to make don confront The Past He'd Left Behind, at which point we realized All Was Not As It Seemed.
because i take sick pleasure in that little intake of breath that signifies the unspoken maternal nightmare of how could THIS be my daughter? i told my mother all of this.
my mother who has never had a beer in her life.
my mother who cannot stand when i am wild like my father.
my mother who is convinced that from the six cigars i have smoked in the last nine months, i am damned to a life of coughing and an early death from mouth cancer.
i told her all of this.
and she did not pause a moment before saying, caroline, men don't want women who smoke cigars.
and i did not pause a moment before saying, in a tone far more wicked than was warranted, oh mother, yes they do.