walter walks on 

walter walks on

Walter limps down the street wearing a cabbage leaf over his left
eye. His feet hurt. It is seven thirty, the light is fading and
surely supper is on the table by now. He wishes the damn dog would
just pee so he can head back home. He looks at the cuff of his old
brown sweater. Even that is unraveling.
---
(luna's turn)
---
It had been a long day, a long week. He'd turned 45
Thursday, and to celebrate three of the guys at the firm had taken him
out to Milt's Jazz and Juice, a sweet little spot in a rough part of
town. They'd drawn more than their share of looks as the only white
guys in the joint. Walter watched the crowd and listened to what the
handsome man in the pinstripe ordered: cognac and Coke. "What in the
fuck kind of thing is that to do to Courvasier??," Harold had said
indignantly, but Walter felt when in Rome and all that, and ordered
the first of several sweet and syrupy concoctions. He was feeling all
five of them hammering at his temples now.
----