“Like what you see,Angel? he says.You ain't my type”
“Like what you see, Angel? He saysI step to the fence. Hook my hands into the links, next to his. I lean in close. He's got tiny white lines around his eyes from squintin. Or maybe smilin. He smells of warm dust an sage.You ain't my type, I says”
“But our eyes are different, what you see ain't what I see.”
“You can trust me, he says.You would say that. How do I know you ain’t lyin?You don’t. But I ain’t.”
“Bluff ain't effective for people of type-A.”
“This ain't Halloween." he said. "What's that mean?" "Means I ain't sharin' my candy.”