"And wouldn't you know, our friend Sheldon Minkowitz just walked in the door."
And yet another quick-thinking moment in the life of LeVine. He licked his chapped lips and chuckled nervously. LeVine trembled, accidentally spilling his paper cup of warm diet ginger ale on his hands. But in true LeVine form, he instantaneously transformed the clumsy mishap into a serendipitous moment.
"L-let me clean this up, Mrs. Rapaport-"
"-Please call me, Abby."
"A-a-abby..."
A few flakes from LeVine's facial patch of eczema fluttered down into his cup of flat ginger ale.
"A-a-abby, I better clean up. Uh...after all these years, I don't want to shake the other Sheldon's hand with this sticky paw."
Abby laughed and while she blinked her eyes in a micro-break from the ultimate pain, LeVine shifted into dodge-mode. He faked left to the kitchen hiding behind Spivak, the three hundred and fifty pound retired chicken farmer with the dewy blue eyes... then pirouetted around Pincus the jeweler with the ironic goatee...then ducked down, fake-tying what was in fact a Brooks Brothers loafer...and finally stumbled safely into the vestibule and out the door past Epstein, the lonely smoker on the porch immersed in deep contemplation over a freshly popped pimple.
Sheldon LeVine née Levine had done it again.
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