He walks in through the open door and says he's got a Motherfucking Bone To Pick.
He walks with a slight limp on the right leg which is strange because he never has before. You point to the lame side and ask if he's all right. He doesn't answer; he just laughs.
You lead him into the kitchen and offer him a seat next to yours at the bar. You turn away to pour yourself a double: you know you'll need it for the conversation you're about to have.
You hear his footsteps on the hollow hardwood floor and remark to yourself how odd it it that half the thuds are doubled; one footstep is normal, the other is a rapid succession of a smaller thud then one more pronounced.
"Look," you explain, content to let him listen in on the talk you're having with your drink, "I know how much she meant to you."
"You don't," he says emptily. "But you will."
You're cut off from your feeble attempt at an excuse by a sharp tightness around your next which pulls you up off your stool perch and back into a soft warm mass. You flail and fight for breath in vain. In your doomed struggle you catch sight of a black work boot attached to one of his legs - the laces are missing.
Huh, you think, and fade to black.