#inalstarter

"I mean, it still fucking blows.” Gio was leaning against the pool table, trying to find his shot and going over what happened to James. He wasn’t the jock’s biggest fan and, in fact, he had been one of his harshest critics back in the days but he didn’t wish him any ill. It’s not like he had an amazing relationship with 80% of his Senior class anyways, but it’s been 10 years since and bygones be bygones. “Your turn.”

“I don’t care what anyone says-- Civil Disobedience is bad and I am not apologizing for it. He takes thirty pages to explain something that could’ve been summarized in three paragraphs. The rest is just a bunch of haphazard rambling.”

Zig wasn’t exactly sure what the hell had happened to his life, but it was assuring to hear that some things never changed. It was tradition in high school to catch the midnight screening of Rocky Horror at Nuart on Saturdays when he was free. Sure, the people had changed, but the enthusiasm and spirit were still there. Now that he was an adult, completely independent from his parents’ bullshit, he can do as he please. He waited outside the theatre and called a Lyft. The wait time was a forty-five minutes. Forty-five minutes. So he had time to kill, great. Under the cold air from the Santa Monica breeze, he lingered outside the theatre before catching a look with someone he recognized from high school. “Hey, wait -- you see the movie too, or just passing by? Lyft is being disgusting.” He hardly saw people he knew here and it caught him off guard. In a sea of adulting, it was assuring to see people that were familiar. “Don’t know what you’re doing, but there’s midnight ramen if you’re down.”

"—so, anyway, a night in Amsterdam tracking a passport thief? Not as bad as you might think.” Beck gestured vaguely as he spoke before wiping out the inside of the glass in his hand with a crisp towel. He had only just come back to Los Angeles, the first time in nearly 10 years now, and he was settling right in with his job as a bartender and his general easygoing charm. In reality, however, he was just counting down the days until he could go on his next trip. Everything was always working towards that next trip.

"No, no, no, do not give her heparin.” It was about the only thing he knew how to talk about effectively—at this point, he was trying to work his way through the numerous medical textbooks and surgical notes he had stacked up on his desk at home. It was hard work. It was slow-goings. “No, just watch her coags. Let me know if anything changes.” He put the phone down and ran a hand down over his face, leaning back in his seat. “All I wanted was some fucking lunch,” he said to himself, his fingers scraping across the stubble on his chin. He stared down at his lunch before shoving the plate aside and instead flipping open a notebook full of surgical notes from his intern year and studying his chicken-scratch handwriting carefully.