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That was not a day Joe could envision. His devastation was plain to see. They were sitting in the kitchen with a counter between them. Sal was struck by how neat everything was, meticulously clean, unnaturally quiet.
"Do you want a drink?" asked Joe.
Joe served Sal, and then pulled out a bottle of vodka, pouring one over ice for himself.
Everybody reaches for something, thought Sal. He'd been there.
"I know it's not good for me," said Joe, shrugging with the peculiar insouciance of a condemned man.
"Well, since you brought it up," said Sal, "you better be careful."
Careful? What did they think of careful when they were young? They remembered a lot of late nights, some of them funny, some risky and not as funny. "Every time I fly into New York and see the skyline, I think about how lucky we are to be alive," said Joe.
He didn't look so lucky, drinking in the shadows. Joe couldn't understand how it had happened, his daughters leaving.
"You know what the answer is," said Sal. "You got to go there, live near them."