“Why is it,” he said to my door as I pushed it open, “that there are so many orange bugs all over the living room?”
I took the gourd from his hands and sucked on the straw before answering: “What the fuck are you doing here so early?”
We walked quietly down the hall to the kitchen to refill his cup with leaves from the little white jar Pete always leaves on my counter. I noticed that he was correct about the bugs, but I decided not to give him the satisfaction of knowing that I saw them too.
“Seriously,” he said. He was sort of freaking out now because there were about a trillion bright orange cockroaches eating all my furniture.
“Honestly, you have to see those bugs!”
Nonchalantly I sipped the lukewarm matte. “You must be sleepwalking Peter,” I said, “I told you it was fucking early.”
Pete started to cry as the orange bugs seeped into the kitchen and began gnawing our shoes.
I walked over to where my couch used to be and crouched down like it still existed. Now Pete was screaming, “LIZZY THEY ARE EATING MY FLESH!”
“Relax man,” I said as I felt tiny teeth sink into my toes, “You’re just imagining things.”