"These guys are in way over their heads."
He interrupted himself mid-polemic.
"Way, way over their heads."

It was late. My room was mostly dark,
save the small pool of light where we sat cross-legged
on the hardwood floor, an ashtray between us.
He was smoking and even Roommate dared not tell him to stop.

"By the way, I talked to your little stalker last night.
He caught up with me when I was walking downtown."
The ash on the end of his cigarette was about to drop on the floor.
"We talked for a long time. He seems pretty normal to me."

"He hasn't been following you for the last six months.
He didn't tell you that bit about Enola Gay and Richard Feynman."

His fingers were twitching, but the ash still didn't fall.
He finally stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray
and began pulling on the skin on his neck.

"We didn't talk about that."


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