Then he comes in the door, and I consider bolting for the asthma aisle to get one of those inhaler things.
Finally he gets up to my line and I'm dropping everyone's glass Hallmark ornaments on the floor and they're shaking their fists at me in post-Christmas shopper fury.
He approaches me and expects me to remember what cigarettes he wants. It's Winston Light 100s. I have this etched deep into the recesses of my hippocampus as a result of doodling it all over notebooks, yet I can't retrieve it. He tells me. "Winston Light 100s" pour from his Godlike lips and fills me with warm fuzzies. Never has such a contemptible product sounded so beautiful.
I search and search for wittiness and come up with "I don't feel like going all the way over there." (The cigarettes are over there.)
"Summon the desire," he says.
"Okay. But this is my exercise for the week."
"You should get out more, in that case."
Get out more? My brain races. Like to your place? To make babies? NOW?
I can't remember what the hell I did say. But he told me to have a happy new year.
But it won't be happy without you, pseudo Brad.