“You’re really bad at those,” he says when he finishes first. I shrug. “I could easily take a tequila shot better than you.” “Honestly, I’d rather not die that way,” he confesses. I hum, closing my eyes. “How would you die? If you could choose?” “Easy. I’d go out in front of a live audience. Sing my swan song and then croak off like an instantaneous heart attack or something,” he says. “Poetic, but morbid,” I say. “It suits you.” “You?” he asks. I shrug. “Probably something mundane like choking.” “Ouch. What? Nothing cool?” I roll my eyes. “We don’t all have to be as interesting as you.”
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