And not just any someone, but a midget at that – the man was such a shrimp that even his wife could pee on him squatting. Hot blood roared in his head if there was anything, a-n-y-t-h-i-n-g he hated most in the world, it was for someone to look right at him and still ignore him. The man continued speaking like spitting, without acknowledging him he might as well not have been there. Turn on his heel and go back? Wait for the storm to pass? Proceed to the table like nothing was happening? He caught the man’s eye and gave a relieved nod, looked to him for a sign. He hesitated by the entrance, deciding what to do. He didn’t know their language but understood it in their boiling voices, the heat on their faces, how they singed each other with their eyes. Things had been fine when he left with their order, but now they had morphed into animals, all bared fangs, vicious, bloodthirsty. He was bringing them drinks – a Castle for him, a Zambezi for her – when he walked into it.
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