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.