|
|
|
|
|
|
|
and funny sounding, hanging together by the thinnest of coherent threads. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Cappy had a whole book full of snappy answers, but this wasn't a snappy answers night, nor was Homer or Harold the kind of guy who could field them. She reached across the table, over a too full ashtray and curled her fingers around his latest drink. She bolted three or four gulps and gratefully felt the pale tea-colored liquid collide with the back of her throat. There was a quick rush and she pushed another insincere smile center stage. As a rule, Cappy didn't drink. Control was the name of the game. If she drank, she wasn't in control; it was as simple as that. The answer she was going to give him wasn't the one that hurt. It was the ugly version, close to the truth, but painless. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
She slipped one of his cigarettes out of the pack of Marlboros, lit it, took a drag and snuffed it out. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"You know what tonight was supposed to be?" she asked. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Harvey Klinger stared back at the lady. He knew he had had too much to drink. He knew his words were coming out slurred. He knew, but at the moment he didn't care. He had finally figured out a way to get out of that hellhole called Thule, and that was enough of a reason to party. If she wanted to tell him why tonight was supposed to be a special |
|
|
|
|
|