that fellow looks familiar, tucker underwood thought.
it was a cold and rainy night. tucker and the familiar looking individual were the only patrons of the cafe de whatever, a once thriving establishment that tucker had frequented in his days as an aspiring young artist.
tucker had long since given up his dream of being a great and famous artist, and had established himself as a player on the street, but he occasionally dropped in to his old haunt on the chance that he might meet an acquaintance from the old days, or just for a quick breath of nostalgia.
tucker picked up his cup of the house’s special blend, and moved over to the familiar man’s table.
do you mind if i sit here? he asked in his politest voice.
suit yourself, the man answered, without pulling his face up from the heavy blue scarf wrapped around his skinny neck.
i thought i recognized you from somewhere, tucker continued, after seating himself.
i would hope so. i am bradley barfield, your old chum from international art school, and i taught you everything you knew although you were too much of a natural born bourgeois to profit from it. i see you seem to be doing well for himself.
why, of course, bradley, i could kick myself, or shoot myself, for not recognizing you sooner. it must be the heavy blue scarf, ot maybe the two days beard. i remember you as always clean shaven and rosy cheeked, and quite the attraction for the fair sex, besides being the most promising artist in the school. as for myself, yes, i am doing all right, now that i i have found my natural environment in the world of finance. may i buy you a cup of coffee, or a croissant?
you can buy one of my pictures.
i might just do that. do you happen to have one with you?
i have some in my hovel, which is just around the corner.
then i would be happy to take a look at them.
you can finish your coffee first. there is no hurry.
sometimes. my room is on only on the fourth floor. you look like you spend most of your life in a gym.
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