by Karl K Gallagher
I didn't recognize the guy, but I let him in. He felt familiar; the name would come to me in a bit. Probably a historical reenactor. The height and beard made him a perfect fit for the Viking encampment.
The eye patch was overdoing it. But who am I to judge?
He accepted a beer--last of the Rahr--and settled into the easy chair before bringing up his business. "You said something at the party Saturday."
I looked down. "Oh. That. You're right, I was totally out of line. I shouldn't have said that to him."
"You didn't believe it?"
"It's not that I don't... look. Losing a child is horrible, it's the worst thing ever. But telling a guy in a wheelchair that he doesn't have it so bad, look at me, that's wrong. I was rude and selfish and I shouldn't have said it. No matter how much I had to drink."
"You meant it."
"Yeah." I downed a slug of my Shannon.
"I accept your bargain," said one-eye.