Morning chat

The next morning came too quickly. Lorenzo woke to the familiar sound of knocking — but this time it was softer, more hesitant.

"Lorenzo? Breakfast." His mother's voice, then footsteps retreating down the hall.

He lay still for a moment, the boy shorts still on beneath his duvet. He'd slept in them. He hadn't meant to, but exhaustion had claimed him before he could decide otherwise. Now, in the pale morning light, they felt like evidence.

He peeled them off and shoved them under his pillow, then pulled on his usual boxers and his school uniform. He checked himself in the mirror — same face, same hair, same Lorenzo. But his eyes lingered a second longer than usual.

Downstairs, the kitchen smelled of coffee and toast and, underneath it, cigarette smoke.

His mother was standing by the island, exactly as she'd been the day before — except today she was already dressed for work. A fitted brown long-sleeved top. A brown leather midi skirt that hugged her hips and fell just below her knees. Brown knee-high stiletto boots. A delicate gold necklace. Her hair was loose, wavy, effortless. She held a blue-and-white floral mug in one hand and a lit Marlboro Gold in the other, a thin ribbon of smoke curling toward the ceiling.

She looked good. She looked like she knew it.

"Morning, love," she said, smiling. She took a sip of coffee, then a drag of her cigarette, and exhaled slowly, her eyes half-closing in obvious pleasure.

Lorenzo poured himself a coffee and sat down. He tried not to stare at the cigarette. He tried not to think about the pack in his blazer pocket upstairs — the one he still hadn't returned.

"You're quiet this morning," she said.

"Just tired."

She nodded, accepting it. She took another drag and held it for a moment, then let the smoke drift from her lips.

"You know," she said, "I was thinking this morning. About smoking." She held up the cigarette between her index and middle finger, examining it like an old friend. "I know you hate it. I know your father hates it. I know it's going to kill me one day." She took another drag, and her face softened into something almost blissful. "But God, Lorenzo. There is nothing in this world like the first cigarette of the day. Nothing."

She laughed, a low, warm sound.

"I've tried to quit. Three times. Patches, gum, cold turkey. I made it two weeks once. Two weeks of being miserable, snapping at everyone, feeling like I'd lost something." She shook her head. "And then I thought — why? Why am I doing this to myself? It's the one thing in my day that's just mine. Not work, not being a wife, not being a mum. Just mine. So I stopped trying."

She took a final drag and stubbed the cigarette out in a small ceramic dish on the counter.

"Does that make me selfish?"

Lorenzo shook his head. "No."

"Good." She smiled and picked up her coffee. "Because I'm not going to stop."

They finished breakfast in comfortable silence. Toast, coffee, the quiet hum of the house. Lorenzo kept his eyes on his plate. He didn't tell her about the cigarette in the alley. He didn't tell her about the homeless man or the lighter or the way his voice had cracked. He didn't tell her about the swimsuit.

He wanted to. The words were there, somewhere, pressing against the back of his teeth. But he swallowed them down with the last of his coffee.

At half past seven, they both stood. Rachel grabbed her handbag — brown leather, matching the boots — and her keys. Lorenzo grabbed his rucksack. They walked to the front door together.

"You're sure you have everything?" she asked, glancing at him as she shrugged on her coat.

"Yeah."

"Coat? Keys? Money?"

"Yeah, Mum."

She smiled and opened the door. The morning air was cool and grey. Her car was in the driveway, and beyond it, the street stretched toward the high street and his school.

"Have a good day, love," she said. She kissed his forehead, and he caught the familiar scent of perfume and smoke, the same scent that had been on the swimsuit.

"You too."

She walked to her car, heels clicking on the driveway. Lorenzo watched her light another cigarette before she even started the engine, the smoke curling out the open window as she pulled away.

He stood there for a moment, the pack of Marlboro Golds still in his blazer pocket, the lighter still tucked beside it.

Then he turned and began to walk to school.