“Aaah! Fine! Name’s Donato, but I go by Gil. Happy now?” He told me as I slunk heavily onto what I took to be the guy’s favorite chair. I had that notion from the half-smoked cigar in the ashtray, and an empty drinking glass, which were both setting on the small, kidney-shaped table beside it. The chair, murder-red, was rather firm and didn’t give at all under my weight and yet it was oddly comfortable.
“Why Gil and not Don or Donny or plain old Donato?” I scoffed.
He groaned again, crossed the room to close the double doors to the back deck, which overlooked my beloved friend, the Pacific Ocean. I hadn’t noticed until he closed the door just how loud the seagulls had been. Apparently, being away for a year, I hadn’t yet lost my ability to tune them out. Even still, I absentmindedly rubbed my ears due to the sudden drop in decibels.
“Damn flying rats!” he cursed, “You throw one dead body out for them to feed on and they never go away.”