Can’t, I’m going to the hockey game with a few guys from work.
Charlie
booooooring
Andrew
You’re just mad no one gets naked.
Charlie
Hockey would be infinitely more interesting if they were naked
Andrew
There’d also be a lot more injuries. The insurance alone would likely negate any potential increase in profit margin.
Charlie
you’re going to put me to sleep talking about profit margins
Andrew
Good. Go to bed. You’re not twenty anymore, you can’t pull all nighters.
Charlie
I hate you mostly because you’re right my eyes are starting to hurt I’m getting old, Annie
Andrew
Sleep deprivation can definitely cause increased signs of aging.
Charlie
you know what I’m going to bed, don’t get too wild at that hockey game. actually I take that back get wild, Annie. Do something to get put on the—whatever the fuck the big screen is called
Andrew
The Jumbotron.
Charlie
yes that! get put on the jumbotron
Andrew
I am not getting put on the Jumbotron.
Aware from many, many past experiences that he and Charlie can get caught up in fake arguing over text, or talking about nothing and everything, he sends another text reminding Charlie to sleep. After, he pockets his phone and makes his way back to the kitchen for a second cup of coffee and some food before he needs to leave for work.
The commute from Nicki’s house is half what it was from his apartment, so he doesn’t have to rush. It’s great but also unfamiliar and leaves Andrew staring at the fridge. He’s eatenmicrowave oatmeal for breakfast every work day for the last year since he took this job because it’s easy. Except he doesn’t actually like oatmeal very much. It was more of something he had the first day of his new job because it was quick and light on his stomach, and once he did that it just stuck as part of his routine.
Aside from being quick, the other reason Andrew went with oatmeal is because he cannot cook. He’s not as bad as Charlie, who should quite literally be banned from the kitchen. He can manage eggs, a quesadilla or assemble a meal kit when the instructions are explicit, but he finds the need to feed himself multiple times a day so tedious, he often puts in as little effort into it as possible. This morning though, he feels like maybe a little effort wouldn’t hurt. He’s got a long day at work and then the hockey game tonight means he’s going to be unable to have as much control over the food later as he wants. Taking that control now soothes a part of Andrew, and he focuses on that sense of control while he cuts up a flour tortilla into bite sized pieces. These are eventually dumped into a skillet with just enough hot oil to fry the pieces. Once that’s done, he adds in the eggs, scrambled in a bowl first, listening to the satisfying sizzle when the egg meets oil.
“Why does it smell like food?”
Nicki’s voice is heavy with sleep, and when Andrew turns to look at him, his body is full of it, too. There’s no sign of the effortlessly cool and collected Nicholas Whitmore. Just a sleepy man with pillow lines on his cheek, bedhead, and rumpled sleep pants.
