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When Jill got home from school, she asked me if they could use our parent's punch bowl instead of pouring the fruit punch from bottles."I don't see why not," I replied, "it will make it seem like more of a party."Jill said, "Thank you Jack," then kissed my cheek.At 4:30 pm, Marcie arrived, followed by the other girls. I poured both bottles of fruit punch into the punch bowl, then went to take a piss. While I pissed, Marcie added another half-pint of vodka to the punch bowl.When I came back. “I know, but it just seems so pointless.”“Just hang in there; you have less than a month to go.”“Actually, just three weeks to graduation.”“Your mother would have been so proud of you,” he said as a tear slipped down his cheek.She got off her chair, and came around the table and held him tightly.“I know, Dad, I know.”She was so much like her mother. She looked just like he remembered Erika looking when she was Kristin’s age. So good-looking, so mature, so responsible; he was really going to. He drank too much, she told him. He stared at other women when he was with her. She checked through his phone and found a trove of emails to some woman he worked with. It was like a letter to an advice columnist, with generic complaints from a failed marriage. The eroticism of the afternoon began to leak away. The sun had ducked behind the clouds; a chill was in the air. She talked about her ex-husband for almost an hour; he had actually checked the time. Here he was with his literal fantasy. My Jesse was MIA at a silly rock concert and I was totally and undeniably out of sorts.A group of noisy young people came in disturbing the serious business of ale drinking and dart-throwing with their self-absorbed chatter about film stars and the usual decadent tripe that managed to increase my already unhealthy blood pressure. One particularly shrill brat with a tight skirt stretched over her backside complained that there was no decent wine in England leaving me to surmise she was not.
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