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"Here, catch!" he said. Terry caught it. It was a small can of pineapple juice.
"I see you've figured out my secret," he said, smiling as he pulled the tab. He had been drinking pineapple juice for breakfast for years. He'd heard about how it was supposed to make one's spunk taste better, which was why he had started with it, but over the years he had grown to like it for its own sake, and he went to a good bit of trouble to obtain it, even requesting it in diners and hotels when he didn't see it on the menu or the buffet. Since he was still feeling a little dehydrated and pH-unbalanced from the wine last night, it tasted especially good. Brent smiled back at him and started frying eggs in the grease in the pan.
"What're you gon' do today?" he asked as they ate breakfast.
"I told Mom I'd go to the rehab place and visit Dad," Terry said. "And then, back to work. Mom opens the store up at noon."
"How's he doing?"
"It's hard to tell. Some days he does better, some days worse. He's fighting this thing as hard as he can. It's frustrating for him."
"I hope to...I hope he gets better. He's always been good to me. He didn't deserve this."
"Who does?"
Brent got up and cleared the table. Terry started to help him. "Don't worry—I'll get these. I wish you could stick around a while longer, but you've got work and so do I. I've got a couple of Sunday gigs in the next town." Terry got his kit and Brent walked with him to the door. "Last night was fun, boo. We need to do it again." He lifted his head and kissed Terry. His mouth was warm and tasted of coffee. Terry's lips parted; he couldn't help it. Brent's tongue brushed against his. "Don't tempt me," he said. "Next week. OK?"
"Ok," Terry said. He opened the door of the house and descended into the humid sunlight. He got in his car and backed it onto the road, scanning the radio for something to listen to. He settled on a blues station, and, not feeling the least bit blue, headed northward towards town.
