Continued from yesterday’s “Best friends forever: Part one.”
I resumed scanning the room. Across from me in at the bar was a skinny middle-aged blond man I’d seen a few times over the last week and who—to my perhaps overly enthusiastic mind—was either pretending to have, or actually only had, one arm. Upon closer inspection, it became clear that his other arm, strung up in a sling, was obscured by his blue jean vest. He was accompanied by what looked like a younger clone—but with two arms—and indeed, my previous companion had suggested this was his beloved son. They got the father-son special: a pitcher of sangria for 13 Euros.
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