Occupational hazard.
Mark 09:42
Wish you were here.
Heath just fell off the garden chair trying to climb onto the table.
Me 09:44
That is the most aggressive subject change I’ve ever seen.
Mark 09:45
I bet you laughed though.
Me 09:47
A little.
Send me a photo?
Mark 09:49
Of Heath?
Me 09:50
You know what, don’t make me specify.
Mark 09:52
Cheeky.
[Photo incoming…]
Chapter 19
Mark
Finley’s studio smells likedisinfectant, cheap soap, and whatever they’re frying two shops down.
Today it’s chicken.
The greasy waft slips in every time the front door opens, mixing with the sharp chemical tang.
I’ve been coming here on and off for nearly fifteen years.
Long enough that the place feels exactly the way Finley does: permanently unimpressed.
The black leather chair is still cracked down one side. The walls are still covered in framed flash sheets, old gig posters, and enough photos of healed tattoos to make first-timers either excited or reconsider all their life choices. Finley himself still looks like a man who has spent two decades dealing with idiots and has settled on sarcasm as his primary defence mechanism.
He glances up when I walk in.
“You’re late.”
“I’m three minutes late.”
“Still late.”
