"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."