. ."
"Yesterday, right?"
"Well, sometime soon, at your convenience."
"As it happens," Oliver said, "I've got time in the next couple of
weeks. How about if I come over Tuesday, say--around nine?"
"Thank you, Oliver. You're a sweetheart. See you then." Jennifer hung
up, and Oliver looked at the computer. "Can't buy Friskies on my good
looks," he said. That was how work came in for him--two weeks here, six
months there. He got by, barely.
The day drifted along. He took a nap, watched a basketball game on TV,
and cleaned, minimally, for his mother's inspection. At seven, he
walked down to George's.
"Foundrymen's Red!" he said, holding up a liter of Merlot. "Foundry
workers, I should say."
"Good timing." George rummaged for glasses, found one, and handed it to
Oliver. "The guest gets the clean glass." He washed one for himself and
filled them both. "Cellini," he toasted.
"Pavarotti," Oliver responded. "And other great Italians. Did you know
my mother is Italian?"
"Some people have all the luck."
"Yeah," Oliver said. "She was a singer when she was young."
"Probably cooks, too," George said.
"Yeah."
"Jesus, Olive Oil."
"She's coming through this weekend.
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