Drinking diet coke filled with foggy half-moon ice cubes in an orange plastic novelty cup. The sharp-edged rim makes your lips uncomfortable. The smell of last night’s cigarettes still lingers in the brown and orange plaid sofa and the smell of fried fish is ever-present. The old long-haired dogs pace about on the brown trailed-in carpet that emits a dead-hollow thud when stricken. The air conditioning always hums on full blast as the news plays on the over saturated television that always has the captions turned on. He always made my peanut butter and jelly on white bread with a touch of margarine. I liked it that way.
For Bumpa.
