“I still can’t believe that man got mad at you because he was drunk and tripped over your chair,” he says, flopping down on the end of the sofa in a way that is surprisingly casual. Everything about Luka seems rigid and purposeful. So, watching him sink into the cushions, one arm draped over the back of the couch, feels as strange as watching him walk backwards on his hands.
“I can’t believe he wanted to fight you over it,” I say from the doorway, laughing at the image of the short balding man yelling at Luka, fist pulled back and ready to fly, until Luka stood up and the man realized he would need at least three more of himself to have any chance against Luka’s sheer muscle.
Luka pats the cushion next to him like it is normal for us to relax here together. Like we do this all the time.
