“Don’t seem to be at her, either.”
“No, sir.”
My historical man might also be getting on in years, however he nevertheless knows he’s at the pinnacle of the food chain. The ultimate aspect Jack wishes is to get chewed up and spit out. He segues the dialog toward some thing safer.
“So, Mr. Evans, you’re now not coming with us this weekend?”
My dad shakes his head, and his tone is filled with regret. And longing. “No, no longer this time. Though I want I ought to go with you boys. So much.”
My mother’s head whips around. “Oh, really, John?”
He coughs. And clears his throat. “Yes . . . nicely . . . you know . . . for the sports betting. You recognize how I revel in sports betting, Anne. And we don’t have that . . . here . . . in New York.”
Nice save, Pops. Nice save.
My mom nods skept
