Kick your feet up on a solid oak desk. The one that belonged to the son of someone mildly famous but rich and powerful.

French antique... now a resting place for my feet and shit-covered boots I'm wearing. There's a cigar calling my name, but I'm making sure I don't smoke anymore.

I speak in vulgarities. Telling kids to whip their ass up. Calls light up the lines. Who's next? Time to chew the shit.

And then when the secretary comes in, this desk becomes the proverbial "nearest flat surface", the kind that won't stain, and the stationary that scribbles up "love can wait"

Love can't wait.

Evans told me:

Any man who thinks he can read the mind of a woman is a man who knows nothing.

Nice one, Evans.

Now get me a beer.