He hums in agreement. “Prayers for that somewhat handsome barista at the café.”
“Our moderately attractive postman,” I say.
“That band of grimy lads on scooters on Edmund Street.”
“Torsten Vogler.”
He laughs. “Jesus, can you imagine? So much strategic maneuvering.”
“Ruthless tactical efficiency.”
“Three pumps and done.”
“A firm handshake and a nod after climax.”
“Stop, nowI’mgetting turned on,” he says, his eyes wide.
“Well, anyway, I hope you’ve enjoyed this morning’s foray into the terrifying hellscape that is my subconscious.”
“I’m just flattered it was me and not Kieran Campbell.”
I roll my eyes. “This again?”
“Come on, Stripes, he’s obviously into you.”
“He is so not! Also, he’s, like, twelve. And I’m not going to date someone at the club. I’d be fired.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.”
“Okay, maybe not fired, but I guarantee Charlotte would have something to say about it. Do you not remember that I’m already on her naughty list?”
“Maybe it’s worth it.” For a moment, there’s an earnestness, a vulnerability in his expression, a glance probing at some unaskable question. But then it’s gone.
“Lachlan, haven’t you ever heard the expression ‘Don’t shit where you eat’?”
“Some of the best shits of my life have been in restaurant toilets, so that argument is invalid.”
“This conversation is invalid.”
“Wow, you aresouncomfortable right now.”
I run my hands through my hair. “Yes, I immediately regret telling you any of this.”
“I don’t! This is the best day of my life.”
“Have you never had one about me?”
His smile is sad, almost pitying. He places a hand on my shoulder. “I’m afraid not.”
“Not even a teeny, tiny hand job or something?”
“Please never say ‘teeny’ or ‘tiny’ in relation to my penis ever again.”
“Sorry, obviously I meant a massive, thumping great hand job.” I gesture with my hands about a foot apart, for emphasis.
“That’s more like it, thank you. But still, no.”
“Cool. Can I go die now?”
