I'm a fool to kill you

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Jenny Phillips was a looker.

She had the prettiest blue eyes, the kind of nose you’d see on statues of a Roman princess, and a helluva rack on her. Maybe I should have felt like a dirty old man, looking her up and down as she stood in the doorway of her apartment, but she was only eighteen years younger than I was.

She was sixty-five.

‘Wow,’ I said. ‘You look great.’

‘For an old lady?’ she asked, smiling.

‘Look who you’re talkin’ to,’ I said. ‘People are gonna think you’re my daughter.’

She reached out and straightened my tie.

‘You’re a handsome old gent, Eddie G.’ she said. ‘Don’t look a day over seventy-five.’

‘Why are people always telling an octogenarian he looks young?’

‘I didn’t say young,’ she said. ‘I gave you about eight years, but you still look like an old geezer.’

‘Thanks very much,’ I said. ‘The car’s downstairs. Are you ready?’

‘Do I need a shawl, or a jacket?’ she asked.

‘Jacket,’ I said. ‘It’s getting cool.’

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