Fire Pattern

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“When you finally set yourself alight,” Maeve Starzynski said, “don’t come crying to me.”

“Very funny,” her father replied, vigorously brushing flecks of glowing tobacco from the front of his cardigan. He had been smoking his oldest briar, the one with the green insulating tape around the stem, when a sudden cough had sent ash spouting from the bowl.

“I’m not trying to be funny. Smoking is a disgusting habit. All the doctors say it’s bad for your health.”

“They’re talking about cigarettes—the pipe is different.” Art Starzynski smiled in his special infuriating way, lowering his eyelids to screen off any sign of opposition to his views. “The pipe is good for a man. People who smoke pipes live longer than people who don’t smoke at all.”

“Yeah—because they poison the rest of us off.”

Her father’s eyes were almost closed, Buddha-smug. “Coffee,” he said pleasantly. “Nice and hot, nice and fresh, and I don’t want instant.”

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