One for the road

I saw Jack Despra last night, at the Kingfish Cafe. Didn't say hello, of course. Despra was mean once, and he could be mean again easy -- the kind of guy who wouldn't bother to kick a puppy if he could kill its mother. Oh, it's not that he enjoyed it. It's just that he saw the world a certain way, and he took steps to make what is closer to what he thought should be. Just like any do-gooder would, but in the other direction.

He looked the same as always. Tall, one of those in-between builds that still says I could break you. Black jacket, as always. White shirt with the little priest collar. Grey hair and grey eyes without the wrinkles to back 'em up.

At a time like that, I think gin is the best solution. Something to hide behind -- something to keep the tongue busy so it doesn't say anything you'll regret. Something to help you forget what came before and, later, what comes after.