i have more, but don’t wanna bore you. Just tell me if you think my style is good or not. The narrator is a lawyer walking with his client he knows burned a man alive.
Kerosene Muscles
Monday. We walk down the stairs in the windy solitude of a November morning with crows calling out all around us, and a garbage truck laboring heavily on the next street. His appearance ratifies any notion that he is beyond wealthy, that he lives an opulent Romanesque little-big lifestyle.
A mangy cat challenges us as we make our way to his gothic black door, but he just keeps walking, a little damp and frustrated in morning rain, down the brick sidewalk with effrontery. The world looks like copper now as the sun reappears, shunning the clouds, and I yank my shoes off and heavily rap my jacket onto his wall hook. Lewis chucks his keys and places his phone on the table.
“Can I offer you a drink?” he says. “Gin, Scotch?”
And I am thinking about the eggs in my stomach, courtesy of Maggie, sloshing around with strong drink, and I get a little green. But he’s an important client, so I say, “Take a scotch.” And he sets about to pouring me this wooden and super proof liquor of fine Scottish royalty and 1920’s gangsters, with Venereal Disease and muffler-hot tempers. He sets it down before me with his corny aviator glasses, staring into me, a forlorn look forced onto his face. I take my one and only small sip of the scotch and rest it back down on his pub table. The lip print and dust I leave on the glass is somewhat embarrassing.
What is windy solitude, or little-big lifestyle, or a sidewalk with effrontery. Gotta lotta work here.