Inside his apartment, Josh grills two cheese sandwiches on the stove and nukes two bowls of vegetable soup in the microwave. “It’s all I can offer,” Josh says, flipping one sandwich at a time in the hot skillet, mozzarella oozing out of the sides like hot wax.
“It’s cool.” Eddie sits on a beanbag chair by the closed picture window in the living room, strumming Josh’s guitar, playing a song reminiscent of one of his parents’ oldie-but-goodie eighties tunes.
“You play the guitar?” Josh asks, adjusting his glasses.
“I experiment.”
Josh rummages in the fridge for two soft drinks. His voice is muffled. “The guitar and I get along fairly well.”
“And it shows. You sound better than me.” Josh recalls Eddie heard him playing the guitar during his milk delivery.
Mortified, Josh says, “You hear
