Mom made tuna noodle salad and watermelon for dinner. Standing at the counter, stirring mayonnaise and macaroni, creating perfect cubes of melon, she reached for her glass of bourbon and ice. She would be drunk by the time dad got home.
She started drinking to get back at him for having an affair. He always said that ladies didn't drink alcohol, especially not straight from a bottle under the sink. He didn't come home, though, one night, and in the morning, a lady wearing sunglasses dropped him off in front of the house.
Eloise and I were playing army guys on the floor while mom stared at the television with the volume turned down. "What's the matter?" Eloise asked. Mom made a movement with her hand, like she was shooing something away.
"Your cigarette is burned down," I said. "It's going to fall all over the carpet."
My mom looked at me like she didn't recognize me, and then she dropped her cigarette, butt and all, right onto the patterned rug that grandma passed down to her. She ground it right in to the fibers with the toe of her shoe. Eloise gasped and looked at me with her mouth hanging open. We weren't even allowed to eat in here.
That's when we heard the sound of a car door slamming. We might not have heard him until he was coming up the porch steps if we hadn't been shocked into silence by mom's disregard for the rug. We ran to the window and peered through the curtains.
"Asshole," mom whispered. Eloise gave me that look again, her eyes big and round.
Dad opened the door and set his lunchbox down. My sister said, "Here come the fireworks."
I thought so, too. I thought mom was going to go crazier than a rabid dog; but she didn't. She didn't say anything except, "Clean those toys up when you're done," and walked into the kitchen and pulled open the cabinet under the sink.
This is my entry in this week's Trifecta Writing Challenge.
The deal is that you have to write a story, using 33-333 words, using the third definition of a given word. This week's word was fireworks.