Thursday August 15, 2019
“Do not trust the masses”, Domenic says, drinking his dry white wine and scratching his chin. His beard is turning grey. I haven’t seen him since I was a teenager, and he looks the same but a bit more pickley.
“I don’t, I’m just trying to – …” Domenic puts his hand on my hand, rested on the tabletop.
“You must follow your own sense, or one day you’ll wake up and you won’t know how you got to where you got to. That is not a good feeling. Take it from me.” He finishes his wine. My mother tops him up. She’s been sitting quietly across the table, watching.
“I believe that we can have our own sense, and be contributing members of society,” I look up at the starry sky.