That means “SUP.”
Nobody says “sup.”
We should bring it back.
Good night, Penn.
Do you still snore?
I used to hear you from Ryan’s room. You sounded like a dying lawnmower.
You’re such a liar.
I’m not! I’m recording you through the wall tonight as proof.
Maybe you were right about sleeping in the basement.
Please don’t banish me.
By the way, this floor mattress is surprisingly sumptuous.
Congratulations on knowing the word “sumptuous.”
That was Morse code for “THANKS.”
I struck a nerve when I joked about your vocabulary, didn’t I?
Maybe.
I’m more than my puerile behavior.
Go to sleep.
I see you’ve gone to “Do Not Disturb” mode.
And yet you still didn’t take the hint.
I took the hint, considered it, and chose to ignore it.
GOOD NIGHT PENN.
Night, roomie.
(That meant “C-YA.”)
7
Grape Thief in Aisle Three
“Costco is thetenth circle of hell, okay? I don’t want to eat a hot dog while I shop for shampoo. I don’t want to peruse TVs and meats at the same time. It’s Ikea, but less easy on the eyes. Home Depot, but with unnecessary, lukewarm food samples.”
Penn stares at me, expressionless.
We’ve just entered Mo’s Market, which is oddly crowded for a Monday morning. I thought grocery shopping together would be a nice, easy way to kick off our clean slate, but alas. We spent the seven-minute drive bickering over where to shop, what music to play, and why Penn drumming his fingers on the dashboard is annoying.
“Who doesn’t want to eat hot dogs while they buy shampoo?” Penn asks, throwing up his hands. “I want to eat a hot dog all the time. Like a true American.”
“Look how wonderfully curated this place is,” I insist, weaving the cart through the produce aisles. “And even better: We’re buying local.”
