Finisher

Dad can’t start anything: a book, a college fund, a conversation, so I know he’s why my bike seat is missing, because I snuck one of his cigarettes, and he’s taken my seat in hope that I’ll start with, “Where’s my seat?” and he’ll springboard off that with, “You know why,” and mention the missing cigarette, but I don’t ask and just say we’re out of bread, and he tells me to bike to the shop for more, so I ride on the balls of my feet, a cigarette burning between each knuckle, puffing through the rest of the pack.