A Night In Daddy's Bed
“It’s all gin and oranges to me, son. But Lenny’s been dead fourteen years. Don’t see what he’s got to do with it.”
“Losing a father can be traumatic,” I said. “It might explain something.”
He paused, weighing me up again—my clothes, my voice, my presence. Another pint tipped the balance.
“You know what I do every morning?” he said.
I shook my head.
“I lie in bed for an hour. Back’s so fucked I can’t even roll over for a cigarette. Just stare at the ceiling, thinking about the day. Same as always—get up, hobble around, come down here, sit on this stool.”