“I hate his fingers.” I tugged open the freezer door—iced up, as usual; who the fuck ever had time to defrost a freezer?—and when I managed to pull the box out, it too was encased in solid ice. I stabbed at it a few times with the bread knife—more because it felt good than for any effectiveness it was having—then threw it into the microwave and put it on defrost. I opened a bottle and poured a large glass. “You’re supposed to let wine breathe.” I lit a Dunhill—only ten so far today, not bad. “And you might consider letting me breathe as well,” Dino coughed. He sounded like an old, gay Jack Russell with emphysema. “Nice try,” I said, “but I never did get the knack of emotional blackmail.” “Shame, or Kate might still be here and we might have something decent to eat.” “Fuck you,” I smiled. “In your dreams. A dangerous line to use on a Freudian,” Dino giggled like a girl.
