ME/YOU:
His coffee cup of fresh french vanilla brew and sweet Rum Chata hits the table top with a muted thud. He catches a glimpse of his own face in a nearby window. Oh boy, he says in the look he gives himself.
“Uh? Think I’d remember that chin.” Forgive him. Old man like him remembers just about one face: his own. And that’s just barely. “So, wuzzup? What’s the name, huh? We ever met?”
The chair screeches when he jerks it out and takes a seat parallel to him. He has loosened all societal inhibitions at this point. Striking up a conversation will not be deterred by the peace and quiet his point of interest expects. World doesn’t always go as planned.
(Except for Fever. It usually works for him now.)
“Fever Sweetwater. I swear I know you,” he says, thick Alabama drawl dissipating for a moment as he studies this dark-featured youngin with narrowed eyes. “And ----yours?”










