Sharp Enough

I watched from across his oversized mahogany desk. A feeble old man and his arthritic left hand struggling with a thin slice of lemon.

“You’re probably wondering why I have you here,” he said.

I wasn’t. I knew exactly why my father summoned me to the dark confines of his cushy Midtown office. I was being cut out of the will. Excommunicated.

“Take a peek at this first,” I said, dropping a thick manila folder.

My counterproposal, crafted by the top law firm in the city. Watertight, ruthless and legally binding.

The old man was still sharp.

Not sharp enough.