As I was crossing Wall Street, I saw my father coming out of the Post Office. He was well dressed and not drunk, though not sober either. “Charlie.” He gave me a vague look. “It is you, Charlie?”
“Yes, it is.” We had not met since he killed my mother three years ago.
“You are still in Colonel Burr’s office.”
“You are still at the tavern.”
Two statements, requiring no answer.
“I’ve been buying stamps, you know.” My father indicated the Post Office as though it would corroborate his story.
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