thewordofweb

I set my pencil in the pages of my journal, tucking away pictures of my family and sketches that I've made in the meantime, turning to face Bill. I take a long drink from my glass before setting it down, debating my response. "Yeah, we are," I concur, wondering what this is about. Babe still refuses to even acknowledge it, so I'm not sure what this is about. "Don't worry," I deadpan, raising my glass for a refill. "We're not publishing the play-by-play in the paper."