Laughter is an irritant when you're waiting for your love. Juniior Bonner was growing more agitated with each collection of cackles from nearby tables. Compounding the injustice was that no one was more prepared for love this night than Junior; a tub bath, razor shave, a dab of brandy behind each ear and on one side of his neck and gawdamned spit shined boots.
"May I get you something, Senor?" the waiter asked for what seemed to be the umpteenth time. "Not yet. I'm waiting for someone," Mr. Bonner replied once again. "It's getting crowded in here, Senor. We will need that table." Junior ignored the threat. "What's holding up Tisha? he started to mutter, then thought about what the "hold-up" might be and that made him even angrier. "Probably picked up a gawdamned john, the bitch."
As Junior tapped nervously on the hard table, he thought about the night his brother killed his cat. He even saw him come back with the rifle, but didn't put two and two together until later. His mind wandered to when he was "throwed" by that quarter horse in Weatherford and Roscoe McClanahan refused to pay him cuz he hadn't worked a whole day. Then he remembered about Tisha. He wanted to stop his brain from goin' where it was goin', but he couldn't. Maybe his brain was subconsciously linking betrayals. The mind works like that.
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