"I wish there were a more reliable source of blood available. I'd make you blood puddin'."
"I think my boss can get us some blood."
"Excellent. I will make you some blood puddin'.
Is it free-range, organic blood?"
This conversation occurred approximately forty-seven seconds before Michael kissed me goodbye and left for the first time; approximately sixty-one seconds before he returned for his Thermos of coffee moaning about how I'm such a distraction. And approximately two minutes and twenty-eight seconds earlier we discussed:
"If you're going to blog about Andrew ________, don't use his last name."
This Christmas season is a knitted sweater unraveling.
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