He pulled out the soiled handkerchief again and smeared germs across his forehead. Then he sat.
“I should say, that is, I meant to say, I removed something and I would like you to put it back.”
He hadn’t added up from minute one. It was only getting worse.
“And the reason you can’t return it yourself is what? They don’t know you took it and you’d like to keep it that way?”
He blushed. Actual pink-in-the-face blushing.
“While it’s more, well, complicated, yes, complicated than that, you could put it that way.”
His predilection for circuitous expression was annoying. And apparently catching.
It pushed him back against the chair.
“What do you mean, why?”
“I get the broad strokes. Give me the details. You said there were details. Share them.”
The sweating and blushing continued. The predilection didn’t.
This is an excerpt from A Long, Hard Look.
To read the whole story, get your copy at Amazon
You’d think I’d know what to expect considering who I was meeting in the cheap dive downtown.
One at a time, sure.
I’d never sat down with the three of them, not all at once.
It’s enough to drive you to drink.
Or for those with other proclivities, to write.
Or maybe both.
Once in a while when I look in the mirror, I barely recognize the face.
You know how sometimes an actor can’t finish a role in a series, but they continue anyway, with someone else, and everyone just pretends that it’s still them?
It looks like me, physically. Not exactly, but a lot.
It’s not the wrong face.
It’s what’s behind the eyes.