For he, in the exhale of whiskeys breath, through the haze of cigarette smoke, gave me advice like no other. And he, though sporting stained glass and leather bound upholstery, wore cracks and scratches upon his benchesa and staines from many years of abuse.

Dust linger in the far off corners of shelves. Cobwebs a fixture rather then a hinderence.

Even now I can hear the meandering of guests, that quiet mumbling of a close knit crowd in tight confinement. My fathers beer-belly rumble would rise above the din to be met by good natured jeers, promises and laughter.

A stark contrast to she.

Whose pristine tiles have recently been mopped. A speck offensive to ones immaculate counters and a sink laced with bleeches tinge. But this is a shallow vaneer, for the smell of a roast chicken smothered in gravy, thyme, rosemary or garlic make one feel wanted in that otherwise desolate room.

And although cold, the promise of comfort food and warm coffee can leave little for complaint. She is there, and merely awaits someone arrival.

Wanton for a project to bestow her generosity and good will.