#conversation “...a poor man’s mind stuck inside a rich man’s body. Or—is it the other way around?” Christ, you had no idea. You were just trying to get your laundry done! But he wouldn’t shut up. “I’m all pale and aristocratic, but I have the mental capacity of a stone-age truffle digger.” “Hey,” he said after a few interminable rounds of the tumbling dryer, “You want to go smoke this joint with me or what?” And you were like Jesus, whatever, sure, fine, as long as you’ll stop running your mouth. And you went out back with him and it was sort of raining, and you stood under the overhang of the big exhaust fan, you know, back there by where the dumpsters gleam green and orange all night long, and you passed this joint back and forth until it got soggy and your fingers got charred, and the whirring of the fan got really noticeable, and kind of sinister. And you got hungry, and then hungrier, and then hungrier and hungrier, just lusting in your heart for salt, and fat, and sweet, and full, and glistening and alive with the clank of the silverware, ring of the glasses, and the holy rhythm of the singing in the cafe across the street, in all its golden splendor like a glowing portal of companionship in an endless stretch of outer space. You took his hand and said come on, I’ll buy. He looked as surprised as the flash of your red underwear, still tumbling, as you passed the rumbling dryer on your way out through the front door.