My Dad: “I called my favorite restaurant earlier, and they’re open for limited seating. Want to go get a burger?”
Me:
My Dad: “Touché.”
As an alternative, we’re eating pizza and watching Ozark (an attack by the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants being about the only thing that hasn’t happened to the Byrdes yet). It’d be good for my dad to get out of the house, but he’s about as panicky as I am, and the chances of him macing someone with Lysol for clearing their throat suspiciously are still fair to middling.
So, y’know, probably best to give it another week.
I can’t wait to watch him enjoy that burger, though.
Marjorie's Forgeries 