26
“I’m getting too old for this,” Armando said as he plopped down at the East End Bar.
“I used to tell you,” Penelope paused, “that you were too old to be doing the s**t you do and I started telling you that thirty years ago!”
Armando smiled. His sister was right. She was six years younger, but always much, much wiser.
“Thanks for having a drink with me,” he said.
“Jesus, Armando, for the past thirty years you’ve been a f**k up.”
“I know, I know,” the poet said, looking into his beer.
“Does Melanie know?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What did her texts say?”
“Whose?” Armando asked. He needed clarification. His head was pounding and he knew the beers would just make things worse.
“Melanie’s texts,” his sister rolled her eyes, “what did Melanie’s texts say?”
“Nothing, see,” Armando said
