With his back still to me, he spat in the sink, and scratched his stubble-covered neck as he grunted out a labored, “Let’s hope so kid.” Followed by a small belch.
He turned and was walking back toward me while taking big gulping swallows, the way a dehydrated man might do when given water after being out in the desert for three days.
“You know,” I began to say; “you shouldn’t drink when there is a minor in the house.”
“You little…” He used a word which called into question my parentage, which I found ironic given that we’d both recently discovered that he was the donor of the sperm that when combined with my mother’s egg, created me.