My Turn by Cal Marcius

The coffee’s hot. Too bitter. Could just be that I’ve had too much and my taste buds can’t take it anymore. I’m on my seventh cup, reading snippets of a paper I’ve already read twice.

Henderson hasn’t moved in two hours. He’s tapping frantically on his phone, a pair of Beats headphones around his neck. He’s looking great. Healthy. A tight t-shirt strained over his muscles, the tattooed arms. Henderson’s been working out since I last saw him, but so have I. He’s oblivious to my presence. I doubt he’d recognise me if I walked right up to him. Two years is a long time. I was skinnier then and had a mop of curly, dark hair.