"You've done well on the first week of this quarter, son," my father says as he sits back in the leather armchair in my office, his coat draped around his shoulders even as he sits. He's come to visit me tonight, which is not surprising. He usually does so every start of the quarter—as if to motivate me–or monitor me to keep me in check. It's all the same to me. "How are the books?"
"Thanks, Dad. I only learn from the best." I grin and his smile shows at the corner of his mouth. "I'm working on it tonight. But so far, it's looking good." I press a button on my desk phone that connects to Irene's communication device and speak, "Irene, we'd like the espresso now, please. Thank you." It's always espresso for my father no matter what time of the day. I don't drink much coffee in the evening, but I try to join my father whenever he does. Irene replies with a quick acknowledgment.
