He tells me he wants to be in my short stories so he can read about himself in print one day. I haven’t had a need for a lawyer yet in my writing. But since B is a good friend of ours, here goes:
He has a relaxed posture, the kind made to lie down on a lounge chair by the swimming pool, to sip drinks with bright pink umbrellas floating in them. He smacks his lips with the appreciation of a connaisseur when he eats escargots à l'ail, drinks Pisse-dru, and looks at women in short skirts and cleavages. His navy suit builds up his thin frame into a slick package that speaks legal jargon with aplomb. Take the suit off and he’s so loose, you could fold him up neatly into a precious small bundle and put him inside your pocket. But you can't take him home. He's happily married. His young son, blue eyes ardent, innocent, adorable, says he wants to grow up to be a 'wawyer' like his dad. Your dad, a warrior? No, dear, he's a bon vivant.
B, go for it. Life is short.
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