"So, what can touch you?
It's been a great few days of sleeping in and you've had lots of agreeable food to eat. At least the world isn't asking you to fire on a tired and empty stomach.
Let's see what you can do..."
"i don't get it, how does the rest of the world work this way?" Cless wonders aloud. "I mean, if i don't turn up, if i'm late or if i just don't have the goods, its pretty much disaster. Like...I'm not gonna be sleeping it off..."
"huh?" Feb looks like he's drinking a cappuccino. But Cless's eyes aren't registering any signs of life in his 'friend'.
"Sorry to get so technical with you." Cless is intent on having a good morning, so he's got to brush this shit aside.
"Surrender, bitch." Feb swiped a cuff across the warm milk-stache' formed across his upper lip. "No one gives a fuck about your schedule and how demanding you THINK things are."
"Say the words...and words become flesh..." Cless knew he was right.
"This is how the military feel right? Elitism because of circumstances? They chill around in uniform because they feel elevated by the stress they're put under?" . "No, wait. you can't even joke about that. stricken from the record. And what do you know about the military?!"
"Still beats the alternative..." Cless made a little motion to the remnants of the milk stache'. "Absolute crap."
They peered out on broadway, anxious to get just a little tan. Their problems seems so far apart. I mean , on one side you have a desk jockey, and on the other; a self-contained pugilist. Only attached by a common history.
But the attetion on the free fifteen minutes would shift on a dime.
"HOLY SHIT! Look!" Feb pointed down the avenue. An old ranger pops the curb a few blocks down and rams into a stopped Explorer. Fords made to meet.