Notebook 15.6

He buys a beer, finishes it quickly. Too quickly, almost with relief. He holds the froth-lined glass to his chest in an admission of guilt. His eyes cut to the bar, but he waits. When he speaks, a putrid little tongue, like a budgerigar’s, pokes between his teeth. Halfway through his second schooner, he finds calm. It is in his red, moist eyes.

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