“How the fuck do I know.” I laugh, too, but not really;
rubbing the back of my neck slow like you rub the neck of a
dog. It feels good— the rubbing.
I signal a waitress killing time near the bar. “She
fucking… last week. No note, nothing. Typical Paula.”
The girl comes over in that swig-swag way, short
checked apron, square dance kind of white top gathered
tight to show cleavage when she bends to take the drink
order. “You, another?” she asks Mickey. He’s shaking his
head stupidly.
I’m watching him thinking: You
cardiac guys, you’re supposed to stay
pumped. No falling in love for half an
hour. Not in this joint, anyway.
The waitress saunters off. To
Mickey I say, “Keep this to yourself.
OK?”
He puts out a hand in friendship.
“Steady. Stea