Chapter 18: Andy
“Oh, can’t we just stay here? I’m all relaxed.”
Tate and I are at opposite ends of the couch, Ezra curled up between us, taking care of his grooming routine. Tate and I are laughing over a DVD of Little Britain, one of our shared passions ever since Tate introduced me to the wacky and tasteless comedy of the British duo of David Walliams and Matt Lucas a few Christmases ago. Our bellies are full, and I would venture to guess that the excellent bottle of Vinho Verde we’ve just about killed has us both in the same nearly slothful state. And don’t even talk to me about the dinner I made—oven-fried chicken, mashed potatoes with gravy, and fresh asparagus, roasted and garnished with lemon juice, olive oil, garlic, and a little grated Parmigiano-Reggiano. We haven’t even touch
