We’re basically two of the six people in the joint, and the bar’s been closed for a while now, but the staff is constantly brewing a fresh pot of coffee, and that’s all I smell after I demolished my smoked meat sandwich, eating up my coleslaw and pickle.
“Born and raised in the city,” Callum murmurs around a bite of his sandwich. He’s been eating much slower than me all night (well, morning) and much more carefully than I have. He makes diligent use of his napkin, wiping his mouth after every single bite.
“Never really been anywhere else. I don’t even have a passport,” he says, swallowing down his last bite, then slurping up some of his Orange Crush (just like mine), like he needs the sugar hit to stay awake.
Now that I’ve eaten and satisfied my hunger, I’m starting to flag, too.
Mus
