

And then, because he couldn’t read her expression - had he gone too far? - he told her he was impressed because he only went back three generations, his grandfather having come over from Cork, but if it was in a barrel it would have been full of whiskey. She’d grown up in Syracuse, in a suburban development, and her accent - the a’s flattened so that his name came out Eelan rather than Alan - just killed him, so incongruous coming from someone, as, well - the words out of his mouth before he knew what he was saying - as exotic-looking as her. Her family, as she’d informed him on the first date with enough irony in her voice to foreground and bury the topic at the same time, went back four generations to the honorable great-grandfather who’d smuggled himself across the Pacific inside a clichéd flour barrel hidden in the clichéd hold of a clichéd merchant ship. He was working on his second when Marcy came up the stairs, swaying over her heels like a model on the runway, and glided down the length of the deck to join him. That and the just-this-side-of-too-cold local chardonnay they served by the glass. No matter how overburdened he felt, no matter how life beat him down and every task and deadline seemed to swell up out of all proportion so that twenty people couldn’t have dealt with it all - a team, an army - this place, this table in the far corner of the deck overlooking the jungle of masts, the bleached wooden catwalks, the glowing arc of the harbor and the mountains that framed it, always had a calming effect on him. It was one of his favorite spots in town - one of his favorite spots, period. That day, the day of the incident - or accident, he’d have to call it an accident now - he’d met Marcy for lunch at a restaurant down by the marina where you could sit outside and watch the way the sun struck the masts of the ships as they rocked on the tide and the light shattered and regrouped and shattered again.

His face was soft, the lines at the corners of his eyes nearly erased in the gentle spill of light - his crow’s-feet, and how she loved that word, as if the bird’s scaly claws had taken hold there like something out of a horror story, Edgar Allan Poe, the Raven, Nevermore, but wasn’t a raven different from a crow and why not call them raven’s-feet? Or hawk’s-feet? People could have a hawk’s nose - they always did in stories - but they had crow’s-feet, and that didn’t make any sense at all. Hard too because her father was there, sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter, sipping something out of a mug, not coffee, definitely not coffee.
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Hard because it was a weekday, after school, and this was her free time, her chance to breeze into the 7-Eleven or Instant Message her friends before dinner and homework closed the day down. That was what her father’s attorney was telling her, and she was listening, doing her best, her face a small glazed crescent of light where the sun glanced off the yellow kitchen wall to illuminate her, but it was hard. I created this to streamline workflow on a 21:9 ultra …WindowGrid Divvy Swish altdrag Moom BetterTouchTool is a great, feature packed app that allows you to configure many gestures for your Magic Mouse (1 & 2), Macbook Trackpad and Magic Trackpad (1 & 2) and also Mouse Gestures for normal mice. Cycle through window positions on a grid system of your design, inspired by the gTile extension for Gnome. Many Git commands accept both tag and branch names, so creating this branch may cause unexpected behavior. A tag already exists with the provided branch name.

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