Friday Night

10P.M The house is quiet. Most of the lights are out but you can see smoke wafting into the living room.

Frances walks quietly towards the source of the smoke. Stands in front of Papa (arms akimbo) looking stern and imposing in her duster.

Papa (in mid-puff, wearing Hugh Hefner jammies): Oh. Er…hehehe—Huli ka!
Fran (snatching the pack): Reds?!? What kind of macho-daddy nonsense are you trying to pull?!? Gimme that!

Papa (in feeble protest): But—but—Frances! Give it back to Papa. Sayang eh. I only smoke one a day.

(I was tempted to offer him a bigger shovel. Instead I huffed away with his cigarettes.)

Papa: Frances...? Where are you going…?
Fran: To the kitchen. GO TO YOUR ROOM. GO TO SLEEP!

Cue the sound of leather slippers padding up the stairs. It sounds almost contrite.
Pasaway...