‘Jesus Christ, Feeney. What’re you wearing?’ The look he sent her was that of a man bearing up under a hideous emotional weight. ‘Wife said I needed to start wearing color. Bought this getup then hung over me, nagged my ears off until I put it on.’ ‘You look . . . you look like a manager for street LCs.’ ‘Tell me. Look at these pants.’ He shot out a leg so Eve was treated to the sight of that skinny limb wrapped in modified skin-pants in the same electric shade as the tie. ‘God. I’m sorry.’ ‘Boys out there think I look iced. What’re you going to do?’ ‘I don’t honestly know.’
