It's a photograph of, as far as I can tell, cat barf, blood and pus covered in melted hair. Upon closer inspection, it is actually the hot new menu item from KFC.
"You want in?" he asks, like it's an exclusive invitation to join the Skulls.
"Absolutely not," I say.
It seems that he's in a sharing mood, because the next thing to land in my lap is a greeting card in an envelope addressed to my Former Landlord from a woman, the loopy handwriting on the front only accentuated by its lack of glitter. The text is PG Hallmark. A bit of Halloween-theme innuendo, with a punch line that basically says: "I was really talking about this. What did you think I was saying, sicko."And, of course, there is a personalized note. About seven sentences that say: "Hey. If you want to hang out again, here is my phone number. Text me."
"Ah," I say. "That's cute."
"Yeah," he says. "I'm glad she sent it. I couldn't remember her name."
"Are you going to call her?"
"Nah," he says. "She's too old for me."
"How old is she?" I ask.
"33," the 37-year-old answered.
I throw him an incredulous gesture, but it is admittedly a tired look that has lost its potency after all these years and all this incredulous-ness.
"She has kids," he whispers.
"SO DO YOU!" I remind him, though truthfully he has just the one.
"Yeah, that was kind of weird when she left and we didn't exchange any information," he says.
"You wanna go in on Chinese? I have a two-fer-one," he says.
"Absolutely not," I say. "In fact, I actually eat dinner with Chuck like every night. Homemade food."
"Really?" he asks, the idea as bewildering as "cenar con mi novio todas las noches."
"You know, I've been drinking good beer," he says, trying to relate. "You know, instead of swill."
"Corona, Grain Belt," he says. "Grain Belt has this Nordeast ..."
He rustles through his things and waves a receipt in my face.
"What's this?" I ask.
It lists a single 49 cent charge for two limes.
"For my Corona," he says. "Top shelf."