J.L. drained his glass, stiffened his spine, and strode to the door pulling it open with a jerk, like a doctor removing adhesive tape.
Any hope J.L. might have had was dashed when the door opened to reveal Ernest Stringer, his piercing brown eyes, a tight lipped smile, and the traditional gift of candy under his arm.
"Good evening, Mr. Spender," he said. "You are, I believe, expecting me." He was so thin that the current, tight fitting style made him look very like a figure constructed with pipe cleaners.
J.L. did his best to appear gracious. "Come in, come in," he said, taking his hat and coat. "Glory will be in soon."
The suit was up to date, but J.L. spotted other telling details. His heels were slightly lighter in color than the rest of the shoes, indicating they had been reheeled. It was also evident, to a trained eye, that the collar and cuffs of his shirt had been resized, proof that the shirt had been laundered; perhaps, even more than once.
"What can I get you to drink?" J.L. asked, leading the way into the living room.
"Nothing, thank you. I seldom take alcohol," the young man said.
"Is that right? A young fellow like you. It certainly is fortunate that the rest of your generation doesn't share your prejudice. Alcoholic beverages account for more than five percent of total consumer purchases."
"Five percent. As much as that? Well, in that case I should have something. Ah ... a glass of sherry, I think," he said, smiling with lips unparted.
"Sherry? Sure you don't want something more ... more substantial?"