By Liz Rigbey
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What can you do? ' George smiles. He brushes hair across his forehead and out of his eyes in a sweeping gesture he probably established in boyhood, only now there isn't any hair. 'Um, well, I don't want to run it,' he says unnecessarily. Kent smiles back at him but his eyes glitter and I know he's going to be merciless. Gregory coughs. 'I probably should have given George more responsibility,' he says. ' We do. We all know. George's eyes stare right ahead of him. 'Oh boy,' says Kent slowly. He's stroking his chin.
The result was always shambolic but Sasha was guaranteed to rise from the mess pointing out that his team had most certainly won. I say: 'Correct. ' 'But someone with an American accent of absolute purity. Curious. ' 'Ooooooooooh. ' Sasha begins to mutter to himself in Russian. Although his English is, of course, perfect, his cadences are not wholly American and when he lapses into Russian he does so with the ease and grace of a seal diving gratefully into the water. 'Aha. Aha. I have the answer.
Suddenly, I glimpse Daddy. He is peering at me through the window. In an instant I realize that the face belongs to a young woman who looks like Daddy and in another instant I understand that the sky outside has blackened and my own reflection is looking back at me. Dark hair, dark eyes, actually green but not in this strange snapshot, prominent bones. I never understood before now how people could say I resembled my father. 'Most beautiful women,' Jay Kent told me, 'have uninteresting faces. ' He was making a statement.
Summertime by Liz Rigbey