My Cardboard Balcony

Drinks with In-Laws by Belinda Roddie Uncle Roy's greasy hand maneuvers under his wife's shirt, and we all get to witness the display, the hot bile rising in our throats, constricting our speech, and souring our breath as we distill our ill wishes from the cans of cheap ale. When my mother-in-law gets up for a cup of tea to wash down the sin, the singing starts. The mocking continues. The bible verses stain the coffee tables. Cousin Archie lights a cigarette while the windows are still closed. Father threatens to punch him for smoking around my asthmatic grandmother - "Go ahead," the freckled little bastard replies. The belching and whistling and hollering makes the landlord downstairs angry. His broom dents his own ceiling like a blunt housekeeper's javelin. When Roy starts crooning off-key to his hiccuping spouse, I check my watch and notice that the hands have stopped moving. It has not gotten any darker or lighter outside. The beer i

The view of the city from our hotel balcony was absolutely sublime, all of the building lit up in blues and greens and reds. My wife poured herself another glass of champagne, while I was simply comfortable with propping myself against the iron railing, staring into the night and basking in the glow of all the holiday decorations and hues. As the air got colder around me, I heard a sharp, rasping noise nearby, and when I turned my head to look, I discovered an older man sitting on the balcony adjacent to ours, coughing loudly into a handkerchief that was spotted as crimson as the Christmas tree strands.