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I’ve been drinking chicken blood mixed with rum. I’ve not had a haunting in my apartment yet,” he said, clutching and kissing the silver crucifix that hung from his neck, before hurrying off, walking hastily out of the cafeteria.Tony passed by him, and the two nodded hellos. As Tony approached, the cult members quickly excused themselves and left. They’d always avoided Tony, for whatever reason.Tony, flashing a toothy, sinister grin, was in a far better mood than us, and he duckwalked, sat down to our table, cupping a hot coffee in his hands, humming the melody to Bruce Springsteen’s “Glory Days.”Tony wasn’t much of a breakfast eater.Tony asked, “What’s good, gentlemen? What’s the current topic of conversation?”“Dreams...” replied The Terrorist, warily.Tony’s posture slackened. He sipped his coffee and muttered, “Dreams, hmmm,” and fell silent, scratching his head, glancing around the room furtively. A few flakes of dandruff fell softly from his scalp, like tiny snowflakes.“Did you. It was Caitlin who was the anomaly in the triangle, not Sonya. All that was required was for her to step aside so that Sonya and Ken could resume their relationship from where they left off. Then they could cuddle up on the sofa listening to those awful Oasis albums, watch those horrible Robin Williams movies and, no doubt, also watch those violent American television programmes that Ken loved and Caitlin found so disagreeable. And that huge white cat cuddled up against the radiator could now shed its fur on Ken’s suits with impunity. It was halfway through the second bottle of wine that the time came for Caitlin to leave. Sonya was now rather maudlin as she reflected on the love for Ken she claimed to have now accepted would never be the same again. In any case, Caitlin knew she really must get home, although she was far too inebriated to confront her husband about his infidelity this evening. A conversation with Ken after he had spent an afternoon of drinking cans of beer with his.
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