2039

I am carrying the very full coffee pot in one hand and a porcelain jug full of cream in the other while Kenny handles the Japanese crane tray loaded with mugs, spoons and a bowl of sugar.  There is room for everything on the coffee table, and I am gratified to see that neither Francois nor Ethan have put their feet on the table, always forbidden while my father was alive and I am bound and determined to honour his memory by maintaining that tradition.  I am reminded of the one time I actually dared to rest my feet, wearing only socks, on that table.  I was twelve.  Dad came into the room with the deacon who was our dinner guest. He approached me calmly and silently, then stood over me with his arm raised in a karate chop that was about to punch down onto my ankles.  I never put my feet there again.  Not even while home alone, and never once since. "Ethan", says Kenny, sitting down next to him,  "It is time for us to talk, all of us present." "About...?" he asks numbly. "You." "And I am going to start.  Ready?" And now Ethan is nothing of Tron or Adrian, but a silent, nervous young man awaiting an anticipated and very unwelcome verdict.