Francis’ neck craned back as he lifted the glass to his thin, pursed lips, shaking it to savor the last drops. The ice cubes clinked against the sides of the glass. The wind chimes from the patio echoed the noise. His companion’s glass sat untouched. Francis rose from the chair and retrieved a golden bottle from the stand to refill his glass. The blackened ashtray accompanied a forest of honey-colored bottles with twist-tops snaking into the air.
Williams sat perched like a blackbird, his back straight and gaze fixed downward. To his surprise, he opened his mouth, but no words came out. A bird with no song. His gaze rose, and his eyes glazed over with a thick layer of adolescent innocence. Francis raised his pipe to his lips and puffed, feeling the smoke glide into the cold, stale air the way it always did. He exhaled through the side of his mouth as he clutched the chewed pipe between his teeth.
Kline wiped his hands one by one on his silk slacks as perspiration gathered at the top of his brow. The late afternoon glow of the sun filtering through the small square window highlighted the particles of dust that had gathered in the air as if the room had captured and collected every word spoken in the room. Sentences spoken long ago hung suspended in the air as the two men waited for the boy among them to speak.
The corner of Francis’ mouth curled up in a sly grin as he chewed the end of his pipe raw.