“So, Maxy, tell me.” “Tell you what?” “Anything. Everything. I want to know so much about you, I could write your biography.” “Oh, I’m not interesting,” I demure. “Tell me about you instead.” He tips his face to the sky and rolls his eyes dramatically. “I’m not interesting says the guy who was drafted to play hockey in the highest league possible. I’m not interesting says the guy who reads sad Russian literature for fun and picks up hot strangers at diners.” “I didn’t pick you up,” I point out. “You just sort of attached yourself to me.” “Like a cuddly and adorable koala.” “Or a parasite.”
