The evening with him passes quickly. Time slips by, he is comfortable to be around and easy to talk to.
“How did you get into guns?” he asks on the patio, after our steaks.
We share the bottle of Tennessee whiskey and sit across from each other on Polywood outdoor chairs around a matching table. I reply to his question with an assortment of lies, “My father had a lot of guns. I was infatuated with them as a young boy. My interests grew in writing, and with guns. I decided to mix the two after college.”
“You’re amazing,” he replies, and toasts me.
“I wasn’t fighting terrorists in the Middle East. That’s amazing, and heroic.”
“You’re going to make my head swell, Yardling.”
Honestly, I hope something else swells on him, but refrain from saying this, keeping my manners intact. Instead, I
