“I like your T-shirt.” I was wearing a black T-shirt with a skeletal hand giving the finger and the words ‘fuck you and have a nice day’ written across it. I’d worn it on purpose. “I think I have one similar,” he remarked. “I wore it just for you.” “Nice to know you think of me when you’re getting ready in the morning.” He had an irritating knack of turning anything I said into something that amused him. “Thinking about torture and murder is always a good start to any day, don’t you think?” I replied, trying to turn the tables. “But you still thought of me, however you sugar-coat it.”
