It was all he could do not to reach out
and take the knife from the man, say hello again and renew the
friendship.
He moved the knife back to the magnet bar and let the field tug it out
of his fingers and *snap* it back to the wall, picked up the wine
glasses, and stepped back out onto the porch. Krishna appeared not to
have stirred except to light a fresh cigarette.
"You spit in mine?" Krishna said.
Though their porches adjoined, Alan walked down his steps and crossed
over the lawn next door, held the glass out to Krishna. He took it and
their hands brushed each other, the way his hand had brushed the
soft-spoken man's hand when he'd handed over the sack of money. The
touch connected him to something human in a way that made him ashamed of
his desperation.
"I don't normally drink before noon," Adam said.
"I don't much care when I drink," Krishna said, and took a slug.
"Sounds like a dangerous philosophy for a bartender," Adam said.
"Why? Plenty of drunk bartenders. It's not a hard job." Krishna
spat. "Big club, all you're doing is uncapping beers and mixing shooters
all night. I could do it in my sleep."
"You should quit," Alan said. "You should get a better job. No one
should do a job he can do in his sleep."
Krishna put a hand out on Alan's chest, the warmth of his fingertips
radiating through Alan's windbreaker.
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