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Weekday mornings they’re open for coffee and light fare. David likes to stop in around ten, leaf through the newspaper.
He doesn't touch the paper today. He sits at the opposite end from where it's stacked in well-thumbed sections atop the bar, and when he sips his coffee it feels far too strong.
“You dodged a bullet, huh?”
Brett’s tone is sympathetic, not gossipy. David tears the end off the slender European sugar packet and pours it all into his coffee.
“I remember one time,” Brett says, “you two were in here talking like an hour past close.”
“Yeah,” David says. “Can we talk about something else?”
“Gonna be hard finding people talking about anything else today,” Brett says.
“Yeah,” he says, and leaves his coffee and walks into the back.
He stares at the bathroom mirror. “I dodged a bullet,” he says out loud.
Brett’s right. All evening long, the buzz of conversation centers on the most seismic news story to ever hit Albuquerque.
“A rich sleeper,” he says to a patron. “Delicate, with a remarkably sensual nose.”
One of her companions is checking Twitter for updates right there at the table. His phone glows ugly against the candlelight.
That night Brett mentioned, David had talked so much, way too much, all about himself, but he’d never been able to draw Fring — Gustavo — out on anything.
He never seemed bored for a moment. Just listened to David telling stories. Listened like he was drinking it in.
“This one’s very tightly knit,” David says, “with an enigmatic structure.”
I dodged a bullet.
“Fault lines have a complex impact on the terroir in that part of the continent,” he says.
He’s never seen a bullet.
"Excellent choice," he says. “A dark, austere red. You’ll be surprised how deep the layers go.”