Rio Together

«You can’t quantify someone’s life within a book, a series or a movie. It's so much more than that, beyond anyone’s comprehension except their own.»

That’s what I say when people ask if I’ll ever make a biography.

Indirectly, somehow, I always end up talking about you, when I’m supposed to be talking about me.

To my dearest friend,

Sincerely,

Marshall Delaware.

END OF SUMMER 95’

Ever since we met, his eyes had always haunted me.

I had seen thousands of eyes, blue, green, brown, angry, sad, horny.

But his, they looked at me, differently.

“It’s your first time here?” I ask, trying to speak louder than the house music vibrating throughout the dance floor.

We fused like magnets, ignoring all other obstacles. We truly started interacting at the bar, he was a tad taller than me, yet he seemed nervous to be here: a newcomer.

He smiled, clumsy and just asked:

“Yeah! How do you know?” he asked kindly almost naively, trying to speak louder than the sound as well.

Questioning me, as if it was not utterly obvious.

He wore dark blue washed jeans I’d guess are from Helmut Lang or Guess.

A Ralph Lauren black polo and a leather jacket. Probably used to be his older brother’s, or was a gift for his birthday by his family at their secondary house in Greenwich.

No doubt, he was from the Upper East Side.

“I don’t know, just saw you hanging there” I replied playfully, as I sipped on my drink.

“Is it your first time here too?” He asked.

Pyramid Club was my estate agency.

I’d go there to find a guy, hook up, stay at his place for a few days and that all over again.

Same cycle ever since I had set foot in New York. Obviously I was not doing it for the fun of it, I had managed to make enough money for my first year at Parsons.

Yet, had no apartment or money for anything else.

I was homeless, to make it short.

“Been here a couple of times” I answered confidently, vibing to the music with my cup in one hand and a cig in the other, drifting my gaze towards the crowd.

“Wha-What’s your name?” He stuttered out, a bit louder, leaning in to make sure I’d hear.

When I turned my head to look at him, he was still looking at me, with that one look.

His face too close to mine.

“Marshall” I smiled, as I finished my drink.

“Sam, nice to meet you,” He said, smiling awkwardly again as he offered his hand for a formal shake.

I have to be honest, I had encountered a few guys like Sam.

Mommy and daddy's boy, an academic weapon, just got introduced into the nightlife by a morally questionable friend, doesn’t know what he wants or does but a bit too much.

But that night, I did not end up dancing around Pyramid Club with my new-found Upper East Sider.

We just sat at the bar, talking, fantasizing about imaginary concepts and wild theories until 3 AM.

That was my first surprise about Sam.

Of course, I expected the usual “my place?”.

Which he did not miss.

It almost felt like he was being too kind, and from what I know it can be two things : he’s a dangerous motherfucker or he’s just never had a hook up before.

The car ride home was only filled with laughters and outbursts whenever our eyes would meet.

**SAM’S APARTMENT**

“Welcome to my little piece of paradise” Sam welcomed enthusiastically as his keys slammed onto the kitchen counter.

His “small piece of paradise” was a loft on the last floor of his building with an access to the rooftop.

The loft is located on Franklin Street.

Far away enough from Soho to barely encounter any tourists.

It had its own atmosphere with those cobblestone roads, and red bricked buildings.

Although you could tell it was a pretty chic environment by the clean streets, and those art galleries all around.

“Can I light my cig in here?” I asked politely, kindly brushing off his enthusiasm.

“Yeah, yeah sure, feel at home” He muttered as he handed me an unused ashtray on the kitchen table.

As I lit my cigarette, I observed a bit more of the apartment. The kitchen looked too clean, which tells me he doesn’t use it often. The kitchen’s layout is pretty simple, metal and dark wood, it forms a “u”, pretty narrow if you ask me. So he doesn’t cook.

The dinner table is facing the kitchen, there's a bookshelf behind me with the door entry and a landline phone.

I analyze the books he's (probably not) reading:“Albert Camus-The Myth of Sisyphus”.

“Hey, you know.. You can smoke in the living room too, right?” Sam said, almost begging for my attention.

I took the ashtray, my cigarette pack and moved next to him on the couch.

He has this small leather couch he most surely got from his parents, where you could fit only three people, at maximum, but probably cost a fortune.

I put the ashtray down on the glass table.

“I like the persian rug” I say as I exhale the smoke.

“It’s a gift from my parents, I know the rug is from Doris something..” He said, genuinely trying to figure out where his parents bought it from.

As if I’d buy it the next day.

But I have to admit, the rug did look nice. I'd like to have one like that someday, in an apartment of my own, blue and white, just like Sam’s.

As I took drags from my cigarette, Sam kept looking at me with that look again.

He isn’t really longing or lusting.

He just looked at me like he was amazed.

The only lighting we have is the big window facing the street, with the moonlight trespassing, showing some parts of his face and his apartment.

I’d guess now that I can see better, he's a dirty blond with hazel eyes?

As usual, we ended up in the bed.

Nothing I was particularly surprised about.

it wasn’t bad, it wasn’t good either.

It just was.

I couldn’t sleep that night, just like most, honestly,

so I just stared at the ceiling until the sun had rose.

I take one last gaze at Sam, he’s sleeping peacefully.

Usually, I’d steal money from him, but I didn’t feel like it. Maybe it was because we were so close in age, or that he was awkwardly nice to me.

That he could’ve been a friend in another life.

Something along those lines.

“Huh…you’re already going?” Sam mutters, half-awake, as I slide my underwears back on.

“Well, I mean..aren’t we.. done..?” I say hesitantly, slowly getting out of bed.

“I’d just thought you’d want to stay a bit more, we’ve had so much fun yesterday.” Sam replied as he sits up a bit more.

As I looked at him, the sun was shining upon him, especially on his blond hair, he probably hadn't cut since he last went surfing.

I looked around the bedroom one last time to make sure I had everything, lighter, cigarette pack, clothes.

Nothing was left.

“I.. I mean, I don’t really know to be honest.”

I continued as I grabbed my jeans on the floor.

“Come on, let’s just have breakfast. If you don’t like it, well at least I tried.” He begged kindly, as he sat up a bit more on his bed.

But why was he so desperate ? Why did he want me to stay so bad?

“We barely know each other, we had a great time, you had fun, I did too, let’s not ruin all of that, okay? I’m not that hungry anyway” I tried explaining in case he had mistaken “this” for the beginning of some corny love story.

Then my stomach growled.

Sam and I exchanged looks, silence imposed itself for a few seconds, and then Sam laughed.

“Come on, I’ll make pancakes, go downstairs” Sam said as he got up naked, putting on shorts.

For the record, it was the first time that this had ever happened since I started hooking up.

But I think that must’ve been the most embarrassing moment I could’ve ever lived back then.

On his way to the kitchen, Sam was still laughing.

I was too, more discretely.

As I smoked my cigarette with some mango juice,

I realized how beautiful his apartment was.

Here I was sitting on the leather couch, facing the bay window. But it also reminded me I should’ve left about twenty minutes ago.

“You’re pretty thoughtful,” Sam said jokingly as he snapped me out of my thoughts.

“Yeah, I do think a lot,” I replied, looking over to the kitchen counter where Sam was finishing up breakfast.

“Well… I tried my best doing cookies and pancakes, but I think… the cookies kind of failed” Sam announced in the most dramatic tone.

He came over serving breakfast like they’d do in those chic restaurants, in an exaggerated way.

“Tada! Monsieur, here is your cookie cramé and pancakes topped with honey” He said, trying to be funny, with the most horrible French accent I could’ve heard in my whole life.

As I sat there, observing the breakfast, he was waiting for some kind of reply or reaction.

I have to admit those cookies looked like shit, yet I took one, just for the sake of the bad joke he made.

“Wait, maybe not this one, it’s a bit too burnt” Sam said, all wary and concerned, picking another one that looked slightly better.

“So, tell me how do you like your crooké?” Sam insisted, with a slightly forced humor.

“It’s as bad as your humour” I chuckled out as I put the half bitten cookie back on the plate.

“Hey, I’m trying my best here, you’re making me feel like I did something wrong.” Sam replied, definitely seeming upset about my joke, as he sat on the border of the couch.

“You didn’t, I just… I’m not-” I tried explaining, at loss of explanations.

“Do you have somewhere else to be at? I wouldn’t mind if you stayed, I’ll be honest, I did like your company last night.” Sam said as he looked at me with those almost childish eyes.

He was right about one thing, did I have somewhere better to be at right now ?

Maybe not.

But did I trust this random guy ?

Fuck no.

“You really do not mind if I stay?” I asked once again, trying to analyze his answer.

“Not at all! I’ve been trying to find a roommate, actually!” he said all enthusiastically.

During that whole morning, while Sam, who I had met the night before at the club, was watching TV on the couch, I couldn’t help but think, why did he want me here so bad?

I do have to admit, the serial killer option did cross my mind at first, but Sam did not have a manic behavior,

He was also too shy to be the Upper East Side starter pack I identified him to be.

I then figured, maybe, he was just lonely.

The sound of TV shows changing endlessly started annoying me, Sam was waiting for my approval on what to watch.

I hadn’t given any because I was thinking.

And I wasn’t going to give any anyway.

Only two sounds could be heard, crunches of failed cookies in my mouth and the TV constantly changing shows.

“Don’t you want to move any of your stuff in here?”

Sam asked, finally breaking the silence awkwardly.

Sam took my additional question for a yes, apparently.

Which felt like a trap I tailored for myself.

Sam and I were polar opposites, he hated the silence and would do anything to break it.

It was like silence was unbearable for his ears, meanwhile, I didn’t mind it, I actually liked it.

In a place like New York, there's no time when you truly get to hear the silence.

I laid my head back on the couch as I took a drag of my cigarette:

“I only have to get my bag at a friend's house”.

I could feel Sam’s intrigue by the long silence that had invaded the apartment.

I turned my head to look at Sam, entertained by the perplexity in his eyes.

“You’re surprised I live off of one bag only?”

I chuckled teasingly, looking directly at him.

Sam quickly shook off his surprise, “Nah, you’re just a lightweight packer I assume” he said, chuckling awkwardly.

“Nah, I’m homeless” I said bluntly as Sam eyes turned to utter shock.

I do like that look. That awkwardness people feel, the automatic guilt they feel afterward.

“But you don’t.. I mean, you don’t look..” Sam difficultly stuttered.

I slowly looked at the window, taking drags one by one as Sam continued stuttering in disbelief, trying to not make it awkward but too curious to do so.

I crashed the end of my cigarette in the ashtray and got up.

“See ya, roommate!” I said in an ironic tone as I left.

Once alone in the elevator, I did feel weird.

Was he even sincere about being roommates?

He did sound sincere though..

What’s done is done anyway.

In reality, I could’ve rented an apartment, find a job, partied, find a nice girl with whom I would’ve stayed a few years with. Then move to the suburbs of Houston in a house big enough to fit me, my wife and two kids who hate each other.

But when I left Houston a few months ago, when I finally turned 18.

It’s all because I had been accepted to Parsons.

I had enough cash saved up to be able to pay, at least for my first year.

As I got out on the street, the sun had rose and was now burning my eyes to the core.

Cabs and people were passing by, always so busy, dealing with their lives.

When I walk around, I always look at people and try figuring out their lives.

What job they do, whether they like it or not, if they’ve had a good life or a good day at all.

Over the years, I did get better at that game.

As I walked, I remembered I had a meeting (again) with Parson’s accountant at 11 AM (sharp).

I could only remember a lifeless office, decorated with paperworks, bills and student files. Exact synonym of anxiety and dull.

**IN THE OFFICE**

“We need the last payment for the approval of your submission to your first semester at Parsons, Mr. Delaware.” The college accountant said, in this boring yet judgeful voice that all these accountant people usually have sealed in their throat.

On a silver nameplate was written “Mrs. Radford”.

I knew she’d be a pain in the ass, just like the last accountant I used to have in high school.

“Listen, I made most of that money on my own and what my parents barely saved up. I’ve already given $3,650 in cash, out of the $14 600.

The scholarship pays half, so $7,300. I don’t have the money in any other form than cash, ma’am. Courses have already started, and I have no way of paying other than cash.” I said desperately, begging for her to show an ounce of empathy.

It was true, I did not have any other way than paying in cash, the phone number I gave to the bank to create myself an account was at a guy’s apartment, in which I would never set foot in again.

“Bald guy” as I call him.

“Listen, Marshall,” she says as she takes off her glasses.

“I’ve really tried, $3,650 does sound sketchy, yet I let it slide once, because you don’t seem like the type of kid to be in “those” kind of troubles, and you promised me you’d give that money under the form of check or credit card next time you’d need to fulfill the payment, so by the end of August.

Here we are, and you are telling me you have another $3,650 in cash?”

I looked down, she was right, it sounded sketchy.

Like it was drug cash or laundry money.

Worst part, it wasn’t, yet it still was “dirty money”.

I had just put a target on my back.

“If you have to tell me something, say it now, Mr. Delaware, because you won’t be able to save yourself later.” She said, looking at me with those suspicious eyes. Automatically telling me she didn’t believe a single word of what I was saying.

An intense tension in the stomach and an aching heartbeat was the only thing I could feel in that one moment.

I had heard those words before, yet now, I couldn’t afford to ever go back.

Not now.

“Ma’am, I’ve worked really hard to move to New York.

All that money, it’s all I have.

If it was not for the scholarship, I would have not even been able to accept Parson’s as an option.

Until yesterday, I didn’t have an apartment, barely ate, and I saved every goddamn penny just to pay for that school.

I don’t know yet how I will pay up for next year, but what I know is that, at least for this year, I’ve done my part of the deed. Parsons is all I have, ma’am.” I said, knowing I definitely nailed it, somehow kind of amazed about the speech I just gave.

Yet most of it was true.

“Alright” as she sighed, motioning to give me the cash.

“But there won’t be any next time, Mr. Delaware. Cause a kid with no apartment, no job activity apart from high school jobs in Houston and all this cash, does sound pretty shady to me. In the future, I’ll be obligated to file research on where that money comes from.”

She mumbles, finally letting the tension in the room go.

“Here you go” I say as I stand up and hand the cash-out from my sports bag.

“I suggest you participate in work study, within the campus, and that you don’t make yourself seen. At all.”

Mrs.Radford says in a tone I could not tell was a caring warning or a bitter one.

“Come get your schedule in one week at the administration office area.”

She said as she switched her tone back to a monotone and boring accountant.

And here I was, I had no money left, one pack of cigarettes almost finished, and an Adidas sports bag with a few clothes in it.

Basically, I had my whole life in there. But at least I had paid up a whole year. I have to admit, that did relieve me.

I felt free.

I lit a cigarette for the occasion and wandered happily through Greenwich down 66 5th avenue.

It’s hilarious how in New York, depending on what street you’re in, you’ll meet different types of people.

From one neighborhood to another, it’s another whole different story.

I like that about New York, it makes me believe anyone can be anything here.

“Go Big or Go Home” as they say.

As I daydreamed about my future apartment, I wandered back to Tompkins. It’s a park where all the kids and adults excluded from society installed themselves in.

Skaters and all types of other misfits would hang there, I’d just sit and watch.

Especially today, I felt better than any of them.

Finally, a way out.

It might seem dumb to mention, but I've never fought to have an education as hard ever since I’ve been born.

As I smoke one of my last cigarettes, skater kids skate by with this nonchalant face and a smell you remember, homeless mad men yell atrocities to some unknown crack gods.

Moms take a walk with their newborns.

Some sleep on benches, others take each other's mouths as hostage.

All of that within the obnoxious chaos of the Tompkins Square park.

Yet it was my one and only peaceful place.

The only one in New York.

“You still here?” says a voice coming from behind.

As I turn back, I recognize a face behind the bushes.

“Aren’t you the girl I met back in July?” I reply curiously, squinting my eyes as the girl comes out of the bushes.

Kayla.

For the recap, Kayla was a girl I had met the first day I had arrived in New York. The first thing I did when I set foot here, with my bag and two cigarette packs, was to go to the Brooklyn Bridge.

We met there.

“Yeah it’s me!” She says, oddly enthusiastic.

Last time we met, we laughed, cried, dumped all of our lives and never saw ourselves again, until today.

Kayla steps fully out of the bushes and sits with me on the bench.

She has those crazy looking dreads, that I do find cool, it’s a mix of her natural hair color and bright pink. She has this big warm smile and I noticed she has a tooth gap, which suits her whole character somehow.

“What were you doing back there in the bushes?” I ask curiously, looking back as I chuckle.

“You’re gonna get mad..” She said, as she giggled, with a somewhat off behavior.

“Come on, you literally know more about my life than anyone on this earth, Kayla girl, tell me.” I ask, wary of what she’s gonna tell me now.

“So you know, when we met I had been kicked out by my boyfriend, and then I eventually came back..” She paused a minute to look at what my expression had to say.

I was puzzled, her boyfriend that is also her pimp, had kicked her out of the apartment (paid with the money Kayla made).

Kayla was like some kind of niche hoe.

She wasn’t luxury, but she wasn’t cheap either.

But looking back at her face, Kayla wasn’t looking for some kind of approval or disapproval, she was at a loss for words, mumbling silent sentences.

“Kayla?” I said, as she snapped back into the conversation and smiled awkwardly two times in a row.

“Yeah sorry” Kayla said in a whispery voice, as she was getting all fidgety and uncomfortable, but at the same time hyper excited.

“So I was sayin, you’re not gonna like it, and I know I shouldn’t have done it but, you would’ve done the same. Clients have recently been into something called “drug sex” which means…well you guessed what it meant, didn’t you ? It pays a lot more AND you get to keep the leftovers.”

Kayla continued spouting over and over again excuses about how she basically got addicted to cocaine, yet, I can only feel disgust when I should probably feel pity.

And what does she mean I would have done the same?

I ain’t nothing like her.

Whatever I was supposed to feel, it had been replaced by disgust.

Kayla kept going, telling a sob story, that she, in fact, had created by her own actions. She cried and swore as if the world had fallen upon her, like some divine punishment. It made her look self-absorbed, on top of being a cry baby and a shitty person. As she continued tale telling her misadventures. I observed the park.

Most people would probably talk about their lives the same way as she does. Every single one of them would refer as the victim of their own lives. They submissively let themselves go through anything just to be able to say that at the end of the day: it wasn’t my fault if I ended up here, like that.

“Enough about me” Kayla finally concluded with a giggle, “have you received a call from your mother?” she added, lowering her voice and keeping her gaze eerily focused on mine.

“I…haven’t. Not since I arrived in New York” I admit.

“But didn’t you say you thought she was in New York and that’s one of the reasons why you came all the way here?” Kayla curiously added.

I’m surprised, for a junkie, she does have a good memory.

“I guess not” I said, taking out one of my last cigarettes left.

“But when you talked about her on the bridge…it seemed like..” Kayla added, which I thought had no sense because she didn’t even know how to end her sentence.

“The Brooklyn Bridge is just a reminder I had, well, have a family, somewhere” I said as I light up my cigarette.

“That’s nice, I don’t really have a family either, well…” And she once again continued on and on about her miserable life story.

And here I was, on a bench at Tompkins Square Park, in the middle of the afternoon, listening to a stranger's childhood.

“Ma’am will you get up for me?” a low voice says with a surprising confidence that only one group of people could have: cops.

The rest of the park had become silent. Birds weren’t chirping anymore, homeless mad men were now asleep, skaters nowhere to be seen and mothers on their way out.

I froze, even though I had nothing illegal on me, but I knew damn well Kayla did.

“If you have consumed illegal substances, it is better you tell us now ma’am, as long as for your friend next to you” the cop says.

“Your friend next to you?” Is he talking about me? Do I look like a fucking junkie to him?

“What do you mean,“ your friend next to you” sir?” I say annoyed, but maybe too confidently.

As I finished my sentence, Kayla had decomposed, slowly turning towards me as if I had sentenced us to an ultimate death trial.

“Well we’re gonna verify that, Phil, check his bag, Martha check the girl, and I’ll check you “sir”” He said in a mocking tone,( he definitely was in to piss me off).

Once the cops had found what they wanted to find, the little bits of cocaine and the small amount of acid she had left on her, we got into the police car.

On the way to the police station, I calmly looked around while Kayla was whining and crying hysterically.

I couldn’t care less.

Somehow I didn’t care during the few hours we had been rotting in a cell.

Maybe I was calm because I knew I didn’t have anything to do with her.

Or maybe it just felt familiar.

Kayla, already having a record, was questioned first.

When I arrived face to face with the officer, Kayla had left already.

“Marshall Delaware?” The officer asked, with whatsoever no emotion, neither was he looking at me, he was just focused on his computer.

“That’s right.”I replied, looking around the dull looking room.

“Why were you with Mrs.Darnell?” The officer asked again.

“We met back at the beginning of the summer when I arrived in New York, I met her again today at the park. She came to sit next to me.” I replied, as I was analysing his desk.

“Were you aware of any of the substances she was possessing?”The officer said, this time looking at me in the most unfazed way.

“Even if I was, what would I have changed?” I replied, also in an unfazed tone. “I don’t really know her, you know?” I added on a softer tone this time.

The officer sighed, then proceeded to stand up.

“You can go, just don’t hang with the wrong crowds, especially around those neighbourhoods, and especially with your looks.”He said as he opened the door, meaning for me to leave as he handed me my bag.

By the time this bullshit had ended, it was 8pm, the streets were as loud as yesterday and the days before. New York never stopped living, whether it was with me or without.

I wandered through the streets again not knowing where I was, with my bag in hand.

It was almost sunset time.

People walked by,they talked,they laughed.

Felt like the last evening of a summer holiday.

Ever since I had arrived in New York, (because most of the time I was homeless), you’d find me on a bench, with my bag, and a cig in the mouth.

I had probably sat on every single bench in Manhattan.

I’d observe, and I’d think a lot.

About myself, about my future.

After all, I was mostly stuck with myself.

10pm came by quickly, and my body dragged itself automatically towards the Pyramid Club again.

No matter where I was in Manhattan, I’d always know how to go back to the Pyramid Club.

101 Avenue A, East Village,that address now felt oddly familiar.

As much as I could end up anywhere in the city,

I’d always end up here on most nights, if not all of them.

Here it was, I had arrived “home”.

“Marshall!” someone yelled on the street across.

As I turned, that boy from yesterday was walking towards me.

“What the hell?”I said, genuinely embarrassed that someone would call out my name in public.

“Listen, I’m sorry, I might have offended you this morning….

I just wanted to check on you, make sure you were okay”

He explained as he brushed his hand through his hair nervously.

“Check on me?”I scoffed, ” Do we even know each other ? What even is your name ?”

I replied.

“I-I know it might seem weird, but again, I didn’t want to offend you in any way this morning, and I was serious about the roommate thing.”

he continued, almost apologising.

“Mind your own business” I whispered, trying to withdraw the attention from us as other people started looking our way.

As he continued explaining all his apologetic non sense, among the crowd was a man I instantly recognized.

A cold chill rapidly ran through my spine.

I froze.

I closed my eyes and opened them a few times to make sure I was seeing well.

I could hear his steps from afar,as if it was only the two of us in this crowded street.

Bald head,leather jacket.Same as-

“Let me make up to you,please.”

the guy I couldn’t remember the name of almost begged with pleading eyes.

My eyes switched back and forth, from the apologetic crybaby and “bald man”.

I couldn’t afford for him to see me, not now, if better never.

“Okay,let’s go!” I stuttered, focusing back on the Upper East siders gaze.

Sam looked surprised by my sudden agreement.

He innocently followed my paths as I waved for a cab.

Once in the cab, it was a dead silent. I looked back once to make sure he hadn’t spotted me. Would he ever?

Maybe, eventually one day.

Blond Upper East sider guy was looking out the window. Probably thinking on what to say next.

“You didn’t tell me your name..” I asked, breaking the silence.

He looked at me, with a glimpse of hope in his eyes.

“I’m Sam.”

I let a small awkward smile express an “oh cool”.

Silence imposed itself again. But I had one more question that was burning onto my tongue for the past 5 minutes.

“Why do you want me around so much?” I finally asked.

Sam looked surprised, as if he didn’t have a reason why..

“You know it’s giving Jeffrey Dahmer vibes, right?”I continued, chuckling, before he could say anything.

Sam looked even more surprised. Then chuckled softly.

“I-I don’t really know to be honest, I guess I just want someone around.” Sam successfully muttered out of his mouth.

Could anyone be that lonely he’d take the first guy he’d hook up with?

“Why me?” I asked, looking right in his eyes, looking for clues to if he was a psycho or not.

“What?” He asked, chuckling nervously.

“Why me?” I said a bit louder, ironically articulating slowly.

Sam looked in front of him for a moment, he let a pensive hum out.

“I think we’re alike. Even though we’re pretty different. I don’t know, you just act like none” he said as he laid his head back on his seat.

I couldn’t help but laugh. That sounded like the corniest shit I had ever heard.

“Just in case, I don’t like boys” I said, chuckling while moving my gaze towards the window.

I could feel Sam’s shock, thinking about how he’d ask “but how come we hooked up” in a way that wouldn’t “offend me”. It made me chuckle even more.

To my surprise. He didn’t, we just sat silent until the cab had arrived at Sam's apartment.