(Content warning: This is a work of fiction that contains language you shouldn’t use and explicit sex scenes.)

Marc was watching Thelma & Louise again. His boyfriend had rented it that afternoon from Blockbuster down the street. It was their third time renting it. Something about Geena Davis and Brad Pitt they couldn’t get enough of. The microwave popcorn was warm and gooey. The cat, a fat tabby named Muriel for reasons nobody could remember, was purring loudly on his lap.

“Something bother you at work?” Sebastian asked. “You haven’t said a word all night.”

Marc shook himself from his torpor. Was it that obvious? Sebastian was a graduate student in philosophy at McGill. He was, quite possibly, the chillest guy Marc had ever dated. But not usually that perceptive. Probably due to living inside books in a bubble of his own making in the space in his head where Ancient Greece dwelt. “Pelleteux de nuages” was what many in Quebec called professional philosophers. People who shoveled clouds, which sounded way better in French. There was more than a grain of truth to it, judging by the guy sitting next to him who looked a little bit like Garfield’s owner, whatever his name was.

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