“Pop Tarts? Did you say you have Pop Tarts?”
“yeah, no I said–can you pay attention, i’m trying to complain.” canned sangria tilts precariously between his fingertips as he turns, noting sally’s current position–-black combat boot on bottle-littered counter as she holds cooler in one hand and reaches for top shelf with the other. hallowell twin makes herself a common occurrence, not just at his parties, but ever chaotically in his peripherals–and probably most often; fishing in his back pocket for his wallet.
“you’re a parasite, I hope you know that.” graham tilts himself up from where he’s perched on the adjacent kitchen island, reaching to fish poptart box from a different cabinet. eyes narrow slightly– he’s tipping slightly, comfortably tipsy as a loose grin quirks on the corner of his mouth.
he holds the sugar out of her grasp for a moment, pointing vaguely accusingly with alcohol-holding hand. “poptarts when you take your shoes off my counter, hallowell.”
