The cheap fan on the nightstand whirred like a dying insect, pushing the humid August air around more than cooling it. A thin sheet of sweat made Chris’s chest stick to the mattress. The room smelled like them—like sex, and your bubblegum lip gloss, and the faint, ever-present ghost of gun oil. The ceiling was a blank screen where his brain projected stupid, heavy things.
He felt you shift beside him, a warm, solid weight against his side. Your leg was thrown over his, your skin impossibly soft. He could feel the gentle puff of your breath on his shoulder.
“Hey, sweetcheeks?” he mumbled into the gloom.
A soft, questioning hum vibrated against his skin. I’m listening.
He kept his eyes on the ceiling, on a hairline crack that looked a little like Delaware. “You ever think about, like… if eagles know they’re, like, the national bird? Like, do you think Eagly feels… patriotic? Or is it just, you know, another Tuesday with better PR?”
He braced for a laugh, or a pillow to the face. Instead, he felt you prop yourself up on one elbow. In the dim light from the streetlamp filtering through the blinds, he could see your face, perfectly serious, your brow adorably furrowed in thought. Your hair was a glorious mess against the pillow.
“Oh my god, babe. Of course he does.”
Chris turned his head, intrigued. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Totally.” You settled back down, your finger tracing idle patterns on his sternum. “He has, like, that dignified vibe. You can see it in his eyes. He’s got standards. Not like seagulls.” You said the word ‘seagulls’ with a tone of profound disdain. “Seagulls are, like, total trash birds. No offense.”
Chris barked a laugh, the heavy thoughts scattering like startled pigeons. “No offense? To who? The seagulls?”
“Well, yeah. They can’t help it. They’re just… messy.” You said it as if it were the ultimate moral failing.
And just like that, the floodgates were open. For the next forty-five minutes, they tumbled down a rabbit hole of pure, unadulterated nonsense. It was the most profound conversation he’d had all month.
“Okay, okay, but what about dolphins?” he asked, rolling onto his side to face you fully, the sheet tangling around his waist. “They’re always smirking. You think they’re, like, smug? Because they’re smart?”