“Shut the door,” I said, sliding into the armchair by the fire. “Bring the scotch, too.”

“Why?” he said, gliding over the bar, “you haven’t been able to drink the blasted stuff for eighty years?”

“So. The smoke still wafts out the top of your head every time you smoke a cigar and yet you still do it.”

“I know, but…I miss the taste,” he said sadly. He grabbed a bottle of Laphroaig, two glasses, and a cuban from the humidor, letting the lid slam shut.

“Shhh…you’ll wake the warm bloods!” I said. They scare the hell out of me.

“Sorry.” Jamming the cigar in his mouth and patting his jacket he said, “You got a match?”

“I’ve never had a match and you know it. Light it on the fire like you always do.”

He set the smoldering cigar in the tray and was preparing to pour me a scotch when the door to the study swung open. We froze in abject terror, our mouths agape.

“Goddammit Kevin!” She yelled, looking around the room. “Have you been smoking in the house again!?”

“No!” came the protest from down the hall.