Not enough

When I first smelled the reek of alcohol, I kept quiet. Deep inside I was fuming.

Here’s a guy who got sick and hospitalized for weeks because his faulty liver cannot properly absorb the medication.

But now, barely two months after returning to work, he’s at it again.

He turned on the television and settled on his usual spot while I tapped away at the computer.

Then I smelled cigarette.

There he was, my dear housemate, puffing on his favorite brand, with the most satisfied look on his face. His smile told me he already knew what I was about to say.

“Balik sa dati, ha?”

Sigh.

I wanted to say more – tell him how the office adjusted when he got sick, what went on in the heads of the managers while discussing his health condition, how I came to be the new person to handle the office's e-mailing list, how we worried about what we’ll do when the network and computers bog down…

That he still has three young kids that depend on him, and that he has to be fit and well at the age of 58 if he wants to see all of them finish college…

That I promised to give him a flying kick the moment I see him smoke.

But I can’t.

It’s his life, and that’s all we ever could do – worry.

And our living room hasn't enough space for a decent flying kick.