Alex calls me over on the request that he needs fashion advice—something that Ata has been trying to convince him of for years. I arrive at his house to find it pleasantly devoid of anyone besides Alex himself and his dog. The first fifteen minutes are spent blasting Arabic hip-hop and eating month-old blue popsicles. (Well, I was eating my popsicle; Alex was fellating his.) It’s only after we’ve eaten the entire box that Alex recalls that he has one of those autism fundraisers to attend this Saturday and needs help picking which suit/tie combination to go with. I agree to help him on principle, because I try to be a good boyfriend and because I would never pass up an opportunity to see Alex in a suit.
Nick was mostly thankful he hadn’t burst in on the princess while she had been bathing. That would have been most awkward. Not that walking in on her while she was taking a piss was much better.
The two stood, frozen, jaws dropped open in shock. Time slowed to a sadistic stop. It was now that Nick took the time to let out that dying breath he’d been saving in his chest and to take in the crimson face of the princess and the way her long golden hair cascaded down her shoulders in soft waves. And the fact that she apparently peed while standing up.
Tuesday night study sessions with Jonathan and Scott were always pretty nondescript. We’d bury the living room of our student house in textbooks, pollute the air with eraser shavings, order some Chinese or pizza, turn on the hockey game, and get no work done whatsoever. It was a repetitive cycle, yeah, but I’m a creature of habit, and as far as I was concerned, eating the same greasy Chinese food or pizza every week was not only good for my sanity, but also good for my soul. (My arteries, not so much.)