I feel like a clod has to esplain himself.
I say: “But my, you are an elegant character, hey what?”
No answer, just a bright glance.
I feel like a clod has to esplain himself. I gaze on him. His head is turned parrotwise at the novelist and the ladies. I notice a glint of interest in the novelist’s eyes. Maybe he’s a cop since he writes police novels. I ask him across the pillows if he knows Simenon? And has he read Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler and James M. Cain, not to mention B. Traven?
