“Of course that’s not all that I am.” She sips her drink some more. “You’re new here,” she says. “Take a chance to learn how things work. I’m not that easy to read.”
“It’s just a bunch of drunken old men in here.” I pan my head around: there’s the dude with the stand-up hair, ascot and stained sports coat; the youngish wannabe executive with his tie loose and eyes like a loon; the man with boobs under his worn-out t-shirt and no shoes on; the boy-man with a thin mustache and seven beers to heaven; and George, leathered man of the twisted poetry and son of a pederast. “The only thing that works in here is you,” I tell her.
“I suppose you’re right, mourning father.”
I had forgotten about Sylvia for a time. s**t! The numbness is a betrayal, really. Sylvia: in a freezer where no one even kn
