XLI. Puffy

The Little Martian stumbles out of bed blearily with me, his eyes are red and puffy, his complexion strained, his stomach empty and tired of churning.

Waking up from too sweet dreams was a nightmare in itself.

We walk past each other as we brush our teeth, barely meeting each other's gaze through the fizzy facewash beard, and as I pull out my laptop, he slumps against the pink bed exhausted.

"not today," he murmurs, soft and tortured

I dont even ask him why, I can't bring myself to.

"but we have to "

"do we? "

"yes."

we walk out into the windy Thursday noon sunshine and barrel down the hallways like a tornado of tired resignation.

I buy him a cappuccino and a brownie and watch him wolf it down, barely pausing between bites.

"better?"

"maybe. "

"i can work with maybe."