The next three hours I worked hard to spread the attention
around so no feelings were hurt. Jonathan and Francis ran out of chips before
nine-thirty, the light weights. They rose from the table and hit the food
again, but didn’t return. They sat in the short couches on the left, against
the glass, facing each other. I almost pulled a groin trying to listen to their
conversation. Francis isn’t above broaching any subject. Jonathan is skilled at
killing. A bad combination.
No comments:
Post a Comment