My curiosity and concern piqued in equal measure and laden with a sense of foreboding I followed her into the kitchen. We sat at the dining table, and she averted her gaze from my own, as if I were some frightful Basilisk, a snake that would turn her very essence to stone. In some respects that was entirely true, given how uneasy she seemed. It pained me immeasurably to see her so agitated. Finally, she broke the silence. “Tony…” she began. I glanced at her impassively, fearful that were I to speak, I would interrupt the incantation, and distract her from the obvious effort it was taking for her to even speak. “On your laptop - I’m so sorry, but I saw some things on it.” I could tell she was anxious, she licked her lips in an unconscious act of innocent eroticism, and in doing so, I found myself stirring unintentionally. I was struck by the porcelain like sheen of her skin, a milky white colour that managed to be on the right side of pale. At the mention of this it felt as if. His wife died before I was born and he lived with his daughter Mary Beth who was a high school girl’s gym teacher and was an old maid. Today, in the non-smoking days, where the air is clearer we’d call Mary Beth, a lesbian, gay, or alternative sexual choice, but back then, in the days of smoke, she was just an old maid. Besides my Grandparents, Elmer was the oldest person I’d ever encountered in my nine years and he smoked everything. He was tobacco. He even looked like tobacco. Elmer was tall, thin, skinny and his complexion was brown and wrinkled like a dried tobacco leaf. That wise old man was like a matured plant who’d seen the seasons come and go and took it’s lesson of growth and change to seed, ready to bequeath that knowledge to a new generation and his house was a veritable shrine to tobacco. Elmer smoked anything, cigarettes, cigars, pipes and he even chewed the stuff. The appearance of his house proved his habit, tobacco stains marked the carpet while the walls, drapes.
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