Hank and I sat at the Chinese restaurant near our place.
“This place got closed down three times for serving minors,” he tells me, drawing a picture of what looks like an egg.
“How does that even happen?” I wonder, tearing a chicken wing in half. Hank shrugs.
The waitress passes.
“Can I get a mai-tai?”
She nods an walks off.
I frown after her. “Unbelievable,” I mutter. I look back at Hank. He has chopsticks in one hand, pen in the other.
“I want to be ambidextrous,” he informs me. He starts drawing with one hand and eating with the other. A couple of three legged dogs dancing the waltz would have been more elegant. He doesn’t seem bothered.
“I don’t think that is something you just choose, Hank.”
He looks up. “Why not?”
“Well, I don’t know. Just one of those things.”
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