In Which the Narrator Dismisses Durrell

Nate settled onto the stool next to mine. He plopped his cell phone and a battered paperback of “Justine” down on the dark brown marble bar top. I examined the book cover with a disapproving glare.

“What? You don’t like Durrell?”

“Never read him. Have no intention of reading him.”

Nate ordered a Sierra Nevada from the bartender.

“How’s the rent situation going?”

“Well,” I sighed, “we found a city agency that does one-time back rent loans but we can’t seem to get the person on the phone that we need to speak to in order to make an appointment to fill out the paperwork.”

“Shit.” He sipped his beer. “Why don’t you like Durrell?”

“I can’t get past the man behind the words, the whole living in Paris with Ninn and Miller thing, hints of libertine lifestyles, naming his daughter Sappho. there’s just too much pretense there for me.”

“To each his own. I’m really enjoying this book, though.”

“Good for you.”

“Yeah.”