“You seem a little silly tonight. You’re not all sauced up again, are you?”
“Nope. Not tonight. That magnificent first impression was a special-occasions-only kind of thing,” I say.Thank God! Actual words!
“I see,” he says, pausing to take a sip of something. “So, are you usually up this late?”
“Hardly ever. I typically keep similar hours to that of a convalescent home. You know, breakfast at seven, lunch at eleven, dinner at four. I’m almost always in bed by eight.”
“Stop lying.”
“Okay,” I laugh. “Usually more like ten. But never like this.”
“Yeah, same here,” he says. “I like to be up and out early, so I need to get plenty of—”
“Beauty sleep?” I interrupt.
He chuckles. “Something like that.”
“So, what’s eating at you tonight?”
“What do you mean?”
“Usually when I can’t sleep, there’s a reason. I lie awake tossing and turning, but it’s more mental gymnastics than it is physical. What’s on your mind?” I ask.
“Wow,” he says.
“What?”
“Nothing, Dr. Landing,” Colin says.
“Well? You asked to call me. So here I am,” I reply. “Spill.”
I wait, but all I hear is him sigh.
“Is it the herpes?” I ask in an earnest-sounding voice.
That breaks him. He laughs and says, “No! It’s just nice to chat, that’s all.”
“Well,” I reply, “I agree, but that’s no cause for cerebral acrobatics.”
“I don’t remember you being this funny in high school.”
“That’s because we didn’t talk back then.”
“Sure, we did. Remember that science class?”
“You mean the first day of school? When we were lab partners for thirty seconds? Yes. I remember. I think that was the last time we actually exchanged words on purpose, other than the occasional ‘excuse me’ in the hallway.”
“No. That can’t be.”
“Indeed, my friend. Hate to break it to you, but you’ve got some rose-colored glasses covering your rearview. You and I”—I lower my voice, like I’m letting him in on a secret—“were not in the same orbit in high school.”
“Stop it,” he says.
“Colin,” I say. “You hung with the cool kids. And I hung out with Cindy Lee.”
“Who?”
“Exactly.”
