“You’re alive,” he says.
“That makes one of us.”
Again with the eye roll. “f*****g Roundup.”
“It’s those f*****g pitchers,” I agree.
“You drank like three of ‘em.”
“Yeah, well, you wanna quit buying ‘em? What do you want me to do, pour ‘em into the koi pond?”
“Hey, don’t blame me.”
“Oh, I blame you.”
“You musta had some kind of fun,” he says, nodding at the evidence of a tablemate as the waitress brings the bloodies.
I shrug. “It wasn’t the worst night of my life.” I smile. “Or the worst morning.”
Gunther likes his little bear cubs—his big hairy stomachs, his tattoos and piercings, his bird’s-nest-lookin’ beards—the bartender waiting for him across the room is the quintessential Gunther guy—but, if his i********: feed is to be believed, he can certainly appreciate the long-donged
