He thought we were only company men, loyal but a little dim-witted, the kind of guys who pass the time making simple observations like “Look, a tree,” and “Yeah, that fat guy is really eating a whole chicken and throwing the bones right on the ground.”
I’m back by the pool table in Shank’s, a dive on the wrong side of downtown, trying not to yawn or stare at the chest of a girl in a tight T-shirt babbling about her ex-boyfriend. Suddenly glass shatters, louder than “Freebird” wailing on the jukebox.
This is the way it happened: Robbie jumped out of the hayloft and hit his head.
“What are you thinking?” her husband asked her. In their twenty years of marriage he had never asked her that.
Whiskery tub of muscle with flicks of spit and slime shot from spotted tongue and slick pink dick.