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“I’m thirty-eight years old, mother.” “Old enough to buy a six-pack of Allagash, yes, but it’s a bit early, don’t you think? And on a Tuesday?”
She licked a drop of champagne off her bottom lip, and the room spun around me. I’d probably give her my social security number and bank PIN if she asked while licking champagne off her glossy lips.
“I am not my father.” She gave me a pitying smile over the rim of her mug. “Of course not. He’s a one-of-a-kind piece of shit.”
“Did they get murdered?” “Worse, the power goes out and they make a fire and fall in love.
