“It don’t hurt,” he said, “but it ain’t comfortable.”
He stabbed at his steak, blood running onto the plate. He liked it rare. I said he looked rough; he shrugged. “Hard to keep the beard trim. Some things stick around, once the moon’s gone.”
I asked him if I should’ve been scared.
“It ain’t as bad as all that,” he growled, and lapped at his water. “Rough on the wardrobe, and my cat ain’t as fond of me, but it’s got its ups.”
I told him I thought he was more of a dog person.
He howled laughter.