"No," Elton says, "first we have dinner. When was the last time you ate?"
He disappears down to the street, then returns with a perfectly spherical burrito for you and another for him. You try not to tear the burrito apart like a raccoon; it's hard, because you haven't had many proper meals lately. You eat in silence for a few minutes, looking around at Elton's collection of occult statuary: a jade qilin, scattered medallions and candle holders in brass or bronze, a bust of Athena in white marble with African features and a helm of what you hope isn't silver. Bookshelves hide Flemish tapestries and Japanese ink wash paintings, and plush velvet curtains frame the windows.
"Tomorrow afternoon," Elton says as he retrieves a dusty bottle of wine, "you need to—Do you want some?"
"Wine me."
"I prefer beer, but whatever makes this scalpel wound stop hurting."
"I actually liked that tea."
"I know it's late, but do you have any coffee?"
"Just water, actually."
Next