“No, but, imagine...”

Clearly tipsy, Hobie says the words, resting his elbow on the table while his arm is spread out on the table and his head is soon resting on the support of his own arm, his eyes closed, but he still wants to talk. He asked to stay, for there was an ironclad argument, an excuse called 'we haven’t seen each other for a long time, don't you want to catch up?' 

Yes, he was certainly right. It was undeniable, for both friends had their own things to do, their own lives. Quite expected. 

And now, being in the brightened kitchen, with the window ajar, through which the air was coming in so that the smell of cigarettes would not stick in the throat, causing discomfort and lungs to burn blue flames from the stifling odor. While one listens, the other speaks as a radio point, by default. By taking a glace of the alcoholic beverage, the liquid penetrates the throat, affecting behavior.

“I was told if I wanted to be pregnant in the future. Seriously. And what were they smoking?”

At the last sentence, he scratched the back of his head and barely smiled at the absurdity of this sentence, blurted out either in a fit of stupidity or something else. His hand descended slowly to his neck, then reached the table, where he stopped it. His eyes close, and he resists the need to fall asleep.