“Oh? And where’s your preferred pick-up spot, Bro? The nearest old age home? The Alzheimer’s treatment center? No wait, that’s where your date... go hoping to catch it so that they can forget about you,” I said, retaliating for his earlier remarks.I was glad to see that at least Martin didn’t seem upset with me over not contacting him after I had gotten out of the hospital.“Nah, Bro. I usually pick up my girls at Dirty Peter’s Bar. That place is the best; they have liquor in the front and poker. I’ll grant you the colossal blunders inspired by identity politics, of course.“Sure, several major industries in the area have been nationalized from a mix of urgency and opportunity, and more than a few tax hikes on the upper classes have reduced income inequality a bit, but there is talk of elections and nobody’s been tossed into gulags. There are no bread lines, either. It’s just a bit of uncomfortable political correctness combined with much tighter gun laws, no surprises there. Like I. The garden was secluded on the left hand side, thanks to the trees, but to the right, it was overlooked by the house next door. The dirty old man who lived there would be in, of course, and she had noticed him ogling her from the upstairs window more than once before. He was old enough to be her grandfather. She thought it was disgusting, the way he drooled over her whenever they met on the street, his eyes never above the level of her chest. But he was harmless enough, and if gazing at her. .. if we were ever together." I knew what she meant.The divorce became final when April was sixteen and Serena had just turned fifteen. I was in Australia and didn't even think about the significance of the date until years later.The phone call started, "Miss Manning, this is Matthew Worthington. Maybe you remember me; I was your husband for a number of years, although I do confess to really shitty job in the role. Anyway, I was hoping I might entice you to dine with me on Friday evening. I.