I plate his toast, bring it over, and perch onto the stool next to him. Not across from him with a nice barrier between us, but next to him, the way he likes, so he can put his hand on my thigh whenever he feels like it without having to reach.
He doesn’t reach, thankfully. Yet. He’s too hungover for it. Thank God.
He doesn’t talk right away, either. He just chomps on his toast, spraying crumbs everywhere, and slurps at his coffee messily enough that it drenches his facial hair and paints the curling ends of his mustache a muddy brown.
“So,” he says eventually. “I’ve been thinking.”
I can’t help but mumble under my breath, “I hope you didn’t hurt yourself in the attempt.” I keep my voice purposefully quiet and indistinct so it’s impossible to decipher.
Is it smart to play with fire li
