Nick powered down his $2 Guinness. He sang tunelessly along with “Sister Christian” on the jukebox, along with his friends, hwile also eating Indian food. Gretchen, his on-again-off-again fuckbuddy, groped his thigh in hopes that tonight she’d get some attention, but he was fixed on scooping up the creamy red spicy chicken with his garlic na’an.
Nick’s best friend Sam came to the table with more pints, and then Derrick, his roomie, a sellout CEO of some twitter startup, sat down and started eating his tikka.
“WTF….” Nick leaned over Gretchen to yell at Derrick. Gretchen was deep in conversation with Sam over whether that was the real The Prez Obama-Pez t-shirt, or a knock-off (of a knock-off).
“Dude, leave it alone. That’s our last one.”
“I’ll just order another.” Derrick said, licking the bowl.
“You can’t just get another.” Everyone knew the Kennedy’s kitchen stopped at 1am, and got backup with orders at 12. They’d never get to his order. Years of bottled up frustration at Derrick’s selfish roommate ways- not paying the extra rent on the parking spot, holding big parties and never paying for the keg, “slumming it” when they were eking by on their minimum hour jobs, which were glamorous until you needed new glasses or got a back injury… made him explode. “Jesus! Someone’s going to get really fucking pissed at you…” Nick got in Derrick’s face, a few inches away from the red stains of tikka on still on his cheeks. The table was silent.
Derrick held out the tin serving bowl. “I left you some.” A tiny smear of tikka was on the bottom of it.
Nick took the bowl and threw it across the room. “Fuck you.” He walked outside and lit a cigarette. Gretchen came out and threw on her hood, zipped up her jacket. “What the fuck was that about?”
Nick shook his head. “I fucking wish that guy was dead.” He looked at Gretchen, challenging her to deny it.
Continue… I can haz copy?