I dressed as if my life depended on it.
You might term that sarcasm if I had any juice left. I put on my Garda all-weather coat and, underneath, a thick white Aran sweater. I didn’t want to be cold.
Dead is one thing, but cold? No, f**k that. The oft-threatened storm was blowing hard and bitter. The streets would be deserted.
Good.
I put a bottle of Jameson in my right pocket. The gun carefully in my left pocket. It is the attention to the little things that make the scene. I wore my Doc Martens, scuffed and worn like my wasting, withered soul. I looked at my reflection in the mirror, said,
“Dying to meet you.”
I was tempted to wear a snazzy emerald scarf that Emily had left behind. Give me that raffish rakish air. Said,
“Guess that would be like
. . . An
Emerald
Lie.”
You think
