Mitchell settles. Bless his soul.
Alex clears his throat. He bows his head for a second as if he’s praying, lifts his head, and begins in a hushed tone that I find soothing, broken because of pain, and filled with grief and confusion. “Mr. Friday was like a father to me. We would meet every Sunday morning for brunch and spend magical hours together thereafter…”
Mitchell digs his claws into my kneecap, outraged by Alex’s lack of class and manners.
I attempt to move my leg out of his reach, but Mitchell’s death-grip only becomes stronger.
Alex continues, “I’ve loved Mr. Friday in many ways…”
I think: I’m sure. Against the wall. In the shower. Over a sofa. In Findell Park.
“As a friend, advisor, and someone to just have fun with,” Alex beams a nervous smile, “Mr. Friday was always there
