I grate my fingers on the underside of the sunmica table, as Eleven guffaws at his joke. It’s unfunny, in a I-would-laugh-if-I-could-but-I-really-don’t-want-to kind of way, especially when he’s fifteen minutes late and the joke is at my expense. I look at him closely. Why am I doing this again?
He looks like a bloated version of a Bollywood heartthrob, which is his only redeeming quality. He looks thinner in his pictures. It’s early 2011; everybody looks thinner in their pictures in 2011. He’s short, but not too short. He’s fat, but not too fat. I am here, but I am not too here. He’s fun, but not too-
No, wait. He’s not fun at all. Do you know what I mean?
