I talk about my uneventful shift at the stadium.
He drinks.
I mention Hamilton and how the guy always tries to put the moves on me, attempting to get in my Dickies.
Darsey drinks.
I talk about Roddy’s and what a cum-hole the place is.
Darsey drinks.
I ask him if he’s not in love with Cliff, and that Cliff doesn’t excite him in the bedroom.
Darsey ignores my questions and drinks.
I don’t drink. Two cocktails are enough for me.
Eventually, he slurs, “I…no love.”
“You’re what?”
“Nuffin’.”
“You’ve had plenty to drink and can’t drive. You’re spending the night. The spare room is ready for you.” I’m talking to a zombie. Someone who doesn’t understand and can’t speak English at the moment.
“Spare,” he says, slumps in the sofa, and becomes mush.