“My brother Tunafish wrote them,” she says. “Most of them back in the 1980s and a few more last year.”
“Really,” I say. “Where is your brother Tunafish now? Love to meet him.”
“He’s back home,” she says, “In North Carolina. In the ground.”
She falls silent. It takes me a moment to understand, then I get it.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say. “By the way, my name is Stu. Stu Jenks.”
I extend my hand and we shake across the knick-knack table.
“Elizabeth Smith,” she says. “Pleasure to meet you.”