The urge to interrupt him before he had finished was
overwhelming, going on and on about catalytic converters and intake manifolds
and actuators as though I gave a flying fuck. But I gently, meekly, nod, smile,
coldly stare. "The distributor, you see, was – pardon the language –
fucked. So I had to remove it. Incidentally, did you know the engine is like
the heart? So, heart surgery, essentially. Needs tender loving."
"And
you're the surgeon, I suppose?"
"I guess, I guess I am, yes," he nodded, drinking,
someplace else in the room a party raging on, music too quiet. He licked his
lips, looking up and rolling his eyes.
"Ssshhh," I whispered, catching him and leaning
him gently against the back of the sofa. His head rolled slightly to the right,
looking exactly like someone who has drank too much. Into his ear, I told him
how much of a fucker he was as I looked up around the room at everyone having
fun, at Zoe over in the corner. "I only brought one roofy with me and I
wasted it on you."
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