Chapter 33New York City, the near future
Like his mother, Alex had always hated August. In the spring and even July, you still had your summer dreams. But by August, they had faded, like so many withered leaves that had begun to swirl along the ground—harbingers of fall and, with them, dreaded winter. Alex was always grateful to escape to Doha, Dubai, Melbourne—anywhere it wasn’t New York’s least appealing season.
“For you, it’s always summer, isn’t it, always shorts season?” Tamara had said to him—somewhat disparagingly, he thought, as if it were proof of his immaturity—during one of their many frustrating dinners that never seemed to go anywhere. Oh, yes, they talked about the One World Festival and his hopes for winning the Open and thus the Grand Slam and what they were calling the D
