I’ve no clue where he got it from but that sucker has so much sugar in it – so much syrup and foam and extra other stuff – that after I’ve finished it I feel like I’ve just been attached to the nearest electrical outlet. Things get brighter. Clearer. Safer. We even watch a little morning television together, as though we’ve suddenly become the strangest married unit in all of existence. There’s even some breakfast to go with it – from yet another heavenly place that can’t possibly be real – and then a nice hot shower. Everything is almost totally normal. Apart from the face palming I keep doing each time I go over sections of the conversation I just had. And how naked I feel when I walk out of the bathroom, in just some too big boxer shorts and a humongous T-shirt of Tyler’s. Seriously, this thing hits my knees, and I still find myself squirming around inside of it. They’re going to see my bare legs. And my bare feet. And probably a bunch of other stuff that I don’t want to think about too hard, as I retake my seat at the makeshift dining room table, in a dining room that doesn’t actually exist.
