“It’s not that funny,” I say flatly while he continues to stumble about as though it’s the best thing he’s heard in months. When I get sick of him I throw my empty can at him and he trips over trying to dodge it.
He’s drunk.
I find myself giggling at him. He’s turned into this caricature of Wong, this distorted imbecilic embodiment of the guy I know so well. He thumps the ground with the flat of his hand, still laughing and I give him a playful kick before reaching down to help him back up.
“Come on,” I say as I pull him onto his feet. He hunches over to catch his breath, noticing his can on its side in the grass, green liquid in a splash around the lip.
“It’s kind of funny,” Wong smiles one of those genuine smiles that tells me that he understands how I feel. He then jabs me in the st
