We go back to our conversation, everyone grimacing at the cold coffees, and after another fifteen minutes, Farrow stands up on his seat—he’s wedged against the wall because everyone filled the booth. And instead of asking Thatcher, Akara, and Banks to move their asses, he literally walks across the table and jumps off. Donnelly and I applaud mockingly. Farrow just lifts a couple fingers in goodbye. “I’m out. See you boys later.” He walks casually to the exit.
