I dream of Manhattans, Old Fashioneds; I love the smell of cigarettes. My grandfather always smelled of bourbon and cigarettes, everyone I loved as a child did. When I kissed the man who would become my husband for the first time, I could taste whiskey on his lips. He shared a cigarette. Times, and I, have changed for the better, but I for one miss cocktail parties and smoke-filled rooms. Albums on the record player, heavy glass ashtrays, a Martini shaker. I have a cabinet downstairs where I keep them, waiting for a party that never quite starts, guests that are late, ice melting.