He wondered how it would all go. The expat would know what came first. Was it the loud time? Or the bad time? In the hot he knew the angry time was like a comma. Something he did not want to use. But sometimes, he had to. He did not like hafting to do anything. Except fish. Or watch bullfighting. Or drinking with Chromers. Fishing was a good time. The best time. Even in the hot he wondered if this was now the good time. Soon he knew when the sun did not rise but instead fell that it would be the somber time. He watched chromers drink a bottle of Pliny. He watched the beads of water form up on the bottle.
He knew Roger Stephens would say it. He would say it on a day like today. It is too hot to fish. That is what Roger Stephens would say and he would be right and his being right meant no fishing. Which meant the chances of bad time would only be lowered by absinthe.