Andrew opened the can. The Virginia tobacco had a tin note that smelled earthy, a hint of vegetal rot. Oud almost. It was nice. He pinched some and stuffed the soft crumble into the open end of the pipe. Marianne sat next to him, her body angled toward him. He pulled out a matchbox and struck one, and hissing into a bright orange light, he lit his tobacco.
“I really wish you’d stop.”
“I know,” he said, breathing the smoke out his nose as he said this. “Just need to think.” He bit down on his pipe gently and took another draw.
“What are you going to do about the kids?” His gut dropped and felt vertigo.
“Dunno, yet.” He coughed slightly. He tapped the pipe on his teeth. Tat tat tat tat tat.
“Can you stop that? Christ, at least you couldn’t do that with cigarettes.”
“Sorry.”
“Andrew, how are you not mad? I don’t even know what I’d begin to do if I were you.”
“You know, someone once told me that you can’t be angry when you’re smoking a pipe. During times of unusual stress and uncertainty, smoking a pipe is steadying. Or something like that, I don’t know. And you know, I think that might be the God’s-honest truth. But Madeline, I tell you what, you can still be annoyed by your nagging little sister while smoking a pipe.”
“Oh yap yap yap.” She made the dog-hand gesture as she said this.
“You think she’ll come back?”
“Would you even want her to?”
“Honestly, yeah. I would.”
Madeline didn’t say anything. Andrew heard her belly grumble.
“Food?”
“Yeah. I’m fucking starving.”
“Mexican?”
“Yeah. Donuts after?”
“Of course. It’s Thursday.”
Andrew smothered the pipe and they left.