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May 9, 2003
My father is a man of routines: goes to work at the same time, comes home at the same time, eats the same lunch everyday, etc. He also sits in the same booth with the same friends every Friday night. I walked up to his booth and tugged on his arm. His elbow to my sternum later, and I was on the ground peering through the smoke as if I were waking up from a dream. I lay there for the few seconds it took for my father to return to drinking, relishing the spare seconds to process my thoughts.