Two
A man in a rainbow Hawaiian shirt and khakis rapped a tune on the smart white door. Michael opened the door and stared, his round, wide eyes blinking behind astute horn-rimmed glasses.
“I thought you wouldn’t come,” Michael finally said, looking between Gerald and Gerald’s hands. It seemed his old friend was holding a glass of milk, green petals of mold unfolding from the center.
What looked like a ball of hollow mud was crushed under his sweat-stained armpit.
What looked like a ball of hollow mud was crushed under his sweat-stained armpit.
Gerald held out the green-rimmed glass. “As much as this grows with time, your tightness never gets too old for me, Mikey, buddy.”
Michael simply raised an eyebrow. “I don’t suppose you want me to keep that.”
“What do you think, Mikey?”
Silence. “Come on in. The party’s started without you.”
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