The class of ’97 avers my fate is in their hands. I point out there is something wrong with that sentence but they continue to prosper. “Boy, do you suffer,” says the pigtail kid, who now only has the ghosts of pig-tails denting her aura, “I ought to get my father on you.”
Her dog is setting under the table because it is that kind of dog: it likes the glint of sunlight on silverware. We are approaching the right time and a little bell rings, the sound ogling kitschly in the nearby twilight.
“Here, let me help you,” I say.