For Dennis, “fascist” was a word of anger; for Tom, a word of confusion; for Lila, a word of duty. For Marta, it was memory—smoke that never cleared.
By the time the Portland bar closed, the cigarette haze had thinned, leaving only the acrid sting in clothes and hair. Dennis stubbed out his last Marlboro, zipped his jacket, and muttered a final thought: “Funny how smoke lingers longer than the fire.”
“Fascist.” “Antifa.” Both drift like smoke—heavy with history, catching in the throat long after the fire is out.