Cups of gin overflowing with ice and lemon twists in the living room. The pillows are filled with smoke. Couch pillows. The kind that grandmothers buy at stores that are kept in business by grandmothers. The glamour of my divorced grandmother oozes off the cigarettes resting in her plastic trays. As many cartons as she can buy, she does, with as much credit as will be credited to her. She smokes inside, and I cough whenever she leaves the room. She says the consumer society must be leaned into. Consumption habits are like paint, the artpiece’s finality found in the family budget. Nonsense has always been acceptable in this house, encouraged even. Because the world is on its way out.
