Vladimir Nabokov. Batir de alas
"But she plays the guitar at night, and fusses with her dog. That's not good, is it?" said Kern, goggling his eyes at his glass.
With another sigh, Monfiori said, "Why don't you drop her. After all..."
"Sounds to me like envy—" began Kern.
The other quietly interrupted him: "She's a woman. And I, you see, have other tastes." Clearing his throat modestly, he made another X.
The ruby drinks were replaced by golden ones. Kern had the feeling his blood was turning sweet. His head was growing foggy. The white spats left the bar. The drumming and crooning of the distant music ce