“Not to be rude, but time’s up. I need food. I can either go around the corner to the Olympic or eat you, figured I’d at least give you the option.”
“I choose the Olympic,” he says, sitting up.
My own fault. Trying to be funny, I meant the option of not being eaten. Now I’m taking him out to breakfast.
He wriggles into a pair of jeans. His hoodie smells like the bar. His tennis shoes fit like moon boots. His hair is too long—covers his ears, covers his neck, wavy and thick—matted into a whorl that cries out Walk of Shame.
I put on my own jeans and a T-shirt, grab a jacket, smash on a hat. The Olympic has terrible coffee, so we fill travel mugs, chase a couple ibuprofen.
“I feel like ass,” he gripes.
I look like I took a frying pan to my face; if he scraped the sleep crust out the cor
