Antonito is up in the pale light of morning. He says his prayers, slips on slipper-socks and slides downstairs. He steps over the third step, the one that creaks. Mom and Cesar are still asleep. Cesar is snoring. It sounds like pennies poured into a can.

The living room smells like smoke and the lid of the phonograph is up. A woman sleeps on the couch, her dress high on her leg. Her eyes are dark with mascara. Antonito stands close to her open mouth, close enough to feel her wet breath, see the small white tips of her teeth. By her hand is a red-rimmed glass, nearly empty, a half-inch of clear liquid at the bottom. Antonito picks up the glass with two hands and brings it to his lips. When it is empty, he takes it to the sink, and returns for the others, one by one.

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Dave Fromm is a lawyer. He was raised in Western Massachusetts and now lives in Los Angeles, California.

This piece was first published in Special Edition INK POT - 2004, a literary journal.

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