To this day he despises the smells of cigarettes, gum, and bacon.
A passing school bus brings the Twins to mind. Mocking smirks, daughter-of-TV Guide beehive hairdos, and delight in tormenting a young classmate who was taught never to hit a girl.
Here’s their house.
There they are. Together still, smoking and chewing. No beehives, just nests of tangled gray.
He reaches into his bag. Sees the scars from their lighter. Remembers the whiff of burnt flesh seasoned with bittersweet breath and laughter.
Healing will come only when he stops feeling guilty for hating them.
Or, perhaps, now.