"Drew, get one from the attendant. What's the matter, you're acting like someone died."
We're at Sports Connection, finished a workout of death. You know, those kind of workouts where you completely forget you're on your fourth set at 80 pounds, you're so PISSED off from a fight last night.
Thank God for Greg, the one person in my life who I know will always be there for me. Thank God we were able to put our own little liaison in the past and become good friends.
We move into the steam room. It's so hot and it feels amazing. I know there are other guys in here but the steam is so high, it's invisible and we're cloaked.
"We fought. We had our first fight, and it's not over."
"Uh-oh....let me guess, "MF"..."
"Yup, I nailed Eric. After sitting in that stupid condo for five and a half hours -- dinner was trashed, I had a hangover from drinking too much wine and he shows up and starts getting all weird and territorial. Then -- I did it, I nailed him."
"What'd he say?"
"He said he was sorry, but by that point, I was bouncing off the wall, Greg. I took off down the hallway, slammed the guest room door and stayed there. It was horrible. This morning, we hardly spoke, the communication was non-existent. It's bad, Greg. I feel like throwing up."
"So, I assume the dinner with Mark Fitzgerald is off."
Then -- from across the steamy emptiness of our side of the room to the other unseen wall in the cloud of heat -- a voice:
"I sure hope not, you're still my favorite cook, Andrew."
"Mark? Oh my God....Mark?"
