“‘Speaking of dead brothers do you wanna go to a party?’ I mean— What is that?”

Carmen was currently sitting down on your couch, telling you about his day (evening?) with Claire as you washed your face in the bathroom.

“But did you go?” You called back, leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom and patting your face dry with a towel.

You and Carmen debriefed at night after most days. You lived across the hall from him, and after meeting him and hanging out a few times, you’d become practically inseparable. It felt nice to talk to someone he didn’t know his entire life for a change. He’d complain (and sometimes beam) about The Beef, then The Bear’s construction, he had introduced you to Sydney when they were trying to come up with new menu items (and now you had regular sleepovers with Sydney), and he’d talk. About Mikey, about himself, about food, about anything. You’d listen.

You had also told him all about your work and family, introduced him to a few friends and also talked. He realized he loved listening to you. Something about your tone and gestures intrigued him and suddenly, you were basically his favorite TV show.

Again, inseparable. Though that wasn’t too hard when you were across the hall.

“I did go, that’s not the point— The point is the sentence,” he tried to object with a huff, reaching for his pack of cigarettes on the desk and lighting one.

“Well, dead brothers and parties are both… stuff.” “Great defense.” “Whatever, it’s hard to find a segue after that topic, she obviously just couldn’t figure out how.”

He rolled his eyes as you plopped down on the couch and motioned for him to keep telling the story.

“Then we went to the party and, uh, she— we consoled her friend about a guy,” he sighed before continuing, “and I… I don’t know. I just drove Claire home after that. I mean, what the fuck am I doing?”