blowing a perfect smoke ring that drifted toward the stone ceiling You’ve been staring at that same sentence for twenty minutes, babe. Either you’re having a stroke or you’re thinking about him.

from the adjacent sofa, not looking up from her magazine It’s him. It’s always him. Her left eye has that twitchy thing it does when he’s been a prick.

looks up from meticulously painting her nails a violent shade of pink Don’t say prick, Tori. Say… emotionally stunted gargoyle with a hairline that’s starting to recede. It’s more accurate.

There you are. I’ve been looking for you.

We need to talk. Now.