ANDREA

Jack O' Connell, the great self-published novelist, grinds out his existence. He has no illusions or delusions. He is in his eighth decade as he slowly meanders to the end. He has no complaints.

If you ask him about his life, he will tell you that it has been good. He says that those who gather downtown to throw his ashes into a gutter on a rainy day, as he has jokingly suggested, will agree that his was a life well-lived if not well-examined.
"Doc" Stein has only known him for a few years, but they became immediate friends when they met by chance at a downtown bar.
"Doc" hadn't seen him lately. "Doc" had been in the enchanting city of Florianopolis, Brazil, for the last six months learning Portuguese, but last weekend he walked into the Boqueron to drink wine and chat with his favorite bartender Andrea when to his delight Jack was seated at the bar flirting with her.
"Doc" had learned in their short time together that they shared many of the same instincts. They embraced, ordered a bottle of wine and "Doc" listened while Jack talked about his activities. With that usual crooked smile, he commenced regaling "Doc" with one adventure after another that he hoped to include in his new novel.
"You'd have to be in my mind to comprehend a damn thing that I'm thinking," he finally conceded.
He stopped and gazed pensively at "Doc" who sat silently. "Doc" didn't want to trouble him with questions. If he had more to say, he would say it. If he didn't, they would drink. He shook his head.
"Did Andrea tell you she was getting married?" he chuckled.
"No! She hasn't mentioned anything."
He grinned as he raised his glass.
"To Andrea."
"To Andrea," "Doc" repeated.

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