I hike myself up onto the stool. It's cramped in here and our knees almost touch. If I shifted just slightly to the left…
"You two have caught me in quite the whimsical mood," Dante remarks as he pulls oysters from the ice. "Nostalgic, really." He points a shucking knife at Andrew and grins.
"I remember the first time I laid eyes on this
miserable, brooding bastard. First time he came in here, he couldn't tell a good oyster from his own ass."
"Dante…" Andrew warns.
"No, no, she needs to hear this." Dante's eyes gleam with mischief. "Picture it: fifteen years ago, maybe more. Or was it…? Ah, shit, I'm getting old. Anyway, this kid—and I do mean kid, couldn't have been more than twenty, had about three hairs for a mustache—walks in at the wee hours of the morning, orders two dozen oysters, and proceeds to mutilate every single one."
"I was experimenting," Andrew protests as he scrubs a hand over his face.
