“Of course, sir,” N. Domingo says, breaking into a smile. When he stands, I realize that he’s a head shorter than I am. But the presence that I thought was lacking comes at me in full force. “I’m a friend to everyone.”
He is a friend. We are old friends. And old friends don’t fight. Don’t argue. Don’t bring up uncomfortable subjects. Instead, old friends share a drink. Share stories. Share an evening lost in the company of free-flowing drinks and genial camaraderie.
It is a sudden splash of water from behind me that breaks his hold on me. Capitalizing on my good fortune, I force myself backwards, away from him.
“What’s the matter, my friend?” N. Domingo is false geniality personified, empty hands stretched out from his sides. “f**k, I thought you wanted to talk. Come sit with us. There’
