The door clicks shut behind him.
Finally. Silence.
Did you taste test your nemesis yet?
Starting strong. No hello, no how’s your mental health—just straight for the throat.
Or lower. I figured you’d appreciate the direct approach.
Unfortunately, no.
No enemy dessert.
No sampling.
I’m on a strict sarcasm and self-loathing diet.
Tragic. You seemed so… enthusiastic last time.
My enthusiasm has consequences.
Now I’m nursing a hangover made of guilt, tension, and the ghost of her skin.
The ghost of her skin should be the name of your band.
Or my memoir.
You’re not still texting her though, right?
Nope. No texting. I don’t even have her number.
Just daydreams. Nightmares. Flashbacks.
All very healthy.
Carl, I say this with affection—you’re a disaster.
But I mean that in a good way.
Appreciate it.
Tell me again how you’re the emotionally well-adjusted one in this friendship?
I never claimed that. I’m just less obvious about spiraling.
So what you’re saying is… we’re equally crazy, just aesthetically different?
Exactly. You spiral in drunk rage texts. I spiral in leggings and retail therapy.
And somehow we meet in the middle. Text purgatory.
Where all good banter lives. And occasionally dies when you get too horny to function.
One time.
And here you are, pretending she didn’t set your brain on fire with one look?
She’s inconvenient as hell. Especially when she shows up in a dress that murders logic on sight.
