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June 5, 2012
Stopped at my dad's house after work to drop off a book about army snipers. He invited me out to dinner, so I turned off the coffee pot. I had started it not so much for the taste, but for the process of putting water into the machine and scooping coffee grounds into the filter. I wanted to feel at home again. At the restaurant, we spoke over shish-kabob. I told him I'm not speaking to my friend, and I imagined (hoped) my dad would be satisfied, but he never knew him, never knew me to have any friends.