His leather jacket moaned as he reached for the beer the bartender set in front of him. He waved the man away. "I want to open the bottle myself," he mumbled, tossing a five onto the bar.
Reaching into his pocket, he found the metal opener attached to his keys. The bottle cap popped off with a satisfying hiss.
Krycek turned to the man across from him who asked the question. He was well-dressed, with blonde hair that touched the nape of his neck. Blue eyes connected with his green, and Krycek squinted back in annoyance.
"Just careful," Krycek responded, sipping at his beer.
"I knew a guy who used to get pissed off if he couldn't wear his boots into the shower."
"Makes washing your feet a bitch, no doubt," he replied.
The blonde man chuckled and sidled over to where Krycek was perched on his stool. "Nah, he was always worried about getting Athlete's foot. He worried more about that than getting shanked."
Krycek's eyebrow rose at the turn in the conversation. "Shanked?"
The blonde man nodded and took a gulp of his martini. "Oz," he said, licking at his bottom lip. "Y'know, the prison."
"Yeah, I've heard about it."
"He used to wear his socks until his toes came through, too," the man said, smiling to himself. "Crazy fuck."
"I knew a guy who used to wear this ratty, torn Knicks jersey when we watched the games on TV. I never could get him to replace it."
"It had sentimental value?"
"He was a crazy fuck, too," Krycek smiled back.
The blonde man sipped at his drink, and the two men were quiet for a few moments.
"You miss him?" Krycek asked quietly, guessing at the man's usage of the past tense.
"Every day," the other man admitted. "You?"
"Every moment," Krycek answered, returning to his beer.