poured out before bed
“Well, I’ve got Clark Gable’s tan – but only on my neck.”
His speech is slurred by a massive, semi-fixed tongue, the product of inoperable oropharyngeal cancer and edema from radiation therapy, but his smile, framed by a too angular jaw and marked temporal wasting, is clear and bright.
“And this trouble with talking – it’s really crippling my attempts to pick up single women.” Cheekily he raises an unruly salt and pepper eyebrow.
I lean in and mirror his eyebrow cheekiness.
“What about the married ones?” I ask.
“Ah, I haven’t tried yet. Say, you’re a married gal… Join me for an Ensure after work?”