Betty

By NICK WESTRATE

"Pornography is easy,"
my grandmother used to tell me,
"philosophy is hard."

She was certain that one day I would become a pornographer.

"And don't mark your body!"

She spoke in a thick Polish accent. I was eight years old.

"It is bad enough to be a whore. Don't be a cheap one."

A tattoo would keep me from a proper Jewish burial. We played pinochle on the front porch because mother wouldn't let her smoke in the house; grandma wouldn't play cards without a smoke, and she liked the view. She played cards all day, and came inside the house only to sleep. I brought her meals and kept her company.
I liked the smoke.

"You don't trust me,"
she inhaled,
"but one day, you'll see. I am aware of your interests."

She shifted in the wicker chair.

"This damn chair!"

It made her thighs look like waffle cones. "Your turn…"

"I know,"
she snapped. She readjusted herself again in the chair, and sipped her iced tea and vodka.

Nick Westrate is a third-year drama student.