"Toss a coin." We stopped on the corner of Clare Street, squinty with alcohol and indecision. He took a ten cent piece from his pocket and we examined it for clues. "Which is heads and which is tails?" "The harp is not heads" I offered, ever helpful but entirely unable to remember what the side that is not heads is called. "But on an English coin that's where the Queen's head would be, so that must be heads!"
I couldn't argue with such flawless logic. So he tossed the coin. I thought he would catch it and flip it over onto the back of his hand as boys do, but he just threw it in the air and watched it fall onto the footpath. More squinting. "What was heads again?"
"Abra" I suggested, hopefully.
I couldn't argue with such flawless logic. So he tossed the coin. I thought he would catch it and flip it over onto the back of his hand as boys do, but he just threw it in the air and watched it fall onto the footpath. More squinting. "What was heads again?"
"Abra" I suggested, hopefully.
