George was a wreck this morning at Fat Albert's. He looked like he had been up all night. Red shot eyes. Disheveled clothes.
"Don't even ask me how I made it into work," he told me.
It made me feel so grateful that I don't drink these days.
"Mom wants you to came and eat Sunday dinner with us tomorrow," George said. "I was going to call you."
Mrs. Jones is one of the best Southern cooks I have ever encountered. I am unsure if I will go, but the thought was nice.