I only got a limited amount of work done. Haircuts for the kids, putting away boxes, doing the baronial newsletter, the W key on my keyboard decided to kind of stop working… it’s been a bit of a hassle. But the hair is cut, the boxes are stashed, the newsletter published, and the new keyboard will be here tomorrow. We abode.
“So, where are you from?” Martin asked me over dinner that night. “Canada?”
“Close,” I lied. “My parents were from New Brunswick, and we lived in the countryside when I was a child. What gave it away?”
“Mostly just the way you talk and sit.” A look of concern blossomed across his face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean anything bad. You just have the faintest accent. Or dialect? I guess it would be dialect…” he trailed off, then looked down at his dish as if it should have been coming to his defense. “I’m sorry. I’m bad at talking to people.”
“That’s all right, Martin.” I cut at my steak. “So am I.”