Klempner
“May I join you?”
James sits in his favourite armchair, by the hearth, his bad leg propped up on a stool. A brandy glass cupped in his palm, the stem slotted between two fingers, he gently swishes the contents around.
“Be my guest, Larry… Sorry, Lars.” He gestures to the opposite chair. “Help yourself to a drink.”
“Thank you.” I pour myself a malt, then take the chair.
James pulls a face. “My apologies. I keep trying to call you by your proper name and it’s giving me trouble. I know you're Lars Waterman. But the fact is, I knew you for so long as Larry Klempner, that it’s stuck. In my head, you're still Larry Klempner. I don't think I'll ever be able to think of you any other way.”
I sip the malt. It’s very good, not that James keeps any other kind, be it whisky, brandy or w
