Your eyes follow their tiny finger and, sure enough, there’s a nine-millimeter handgun lying in the middle of your neighborhood street at eight in the morning on Fat Tuesday.
Once my father finishes and leaves, my mother leans back into her chair, rests her eyes on the clock above us, and begins to recall the lovers of her past.
But maybe it would be good in some way, this sudden death of his, maybe it would mean his son Jason would move back to town and stop chasing that stupid life as a YouTube street magician.