“Hey, so the other week at the art show. You know when I asked you where he went?”
“Uh huh,” I take a sip of my Jack and ginger ale. Damn, a place like this has real ginger ale. Not that bar shit. My thighs stick to the vinyl chair, should’ve worn jeans. Do I have Purell in my purse?
“You told me he was probably taking a dump.”
“Yeah, he probably was.”
“Well, an hour later I was looking for you and he told me you were probably pooping.”
I take a sip. “What the fuck?! Who says that?”
“Clearly you are hanging out way too much.”
I went home to find him in bed with his Kindle, feeling strangely closer to him. Jack and ginger ale still on my breath.