6/3/07 - Benjamin
---
The scent of the lively Life Cafe still lingers heavily on Benjamin, the musk of beer and whiskey on him. Ben has left the noisy atmosphere, mostly out of chance that his pocket has run empty long before his thirst was quenched. Baggy eyed and red-ringed he slouches against the wall in the back alley of the cafe, quietly enjoying the stench of yesterday's trash near the mouth of the damp, dark alleyway.
New York City's Finest is off today, inasmuch as he ever is; the sports jacket and tie, relics of the last shift, have a more casual flair when matched with blue jeans. Det. Rossi accompanies colleagues to the Life Cafe, conversation ping-ponged between masculine voices: four men, one alto-voiced woman. His, baritone and sardonic, pitches briefly loud as he glances askance in passing -- then stops, the recognition of a face stalling his progress. "You guys go on ahead," he tosses over his shoulder. "I think I see someone I -- Hey. /Benjy/."
Benjamin looks up, blinking heavily. His own shirt is tee-d and dingy, a little bit of grime dotting the bottom of it in a badge of lunch not long ago eaten. "Uh, detective," he murmurs, pushing himself off the wall. Hands immediately slip into his pockets as he stares firmly between his feet. "Evening."
The first few steps into the alley are halted as a breeze flutters, vomiting stench towards Rossi. The detective's nostrils flare incredulously, then pinch. "Holy--" he begins in a stifled voice. And then, because obscenities need closure, finishes with a breathless, "--fuck. You look like crap. What gives? You get evicted and start living in a dumpster? Jesus, kid--"
Benjamin bends back a little, eyes finally floating up to Rossi. "Yeah, no. Thanks," the boy grunts, untucking a hand long enough to wave it. "It's just been rough. You know. Since... yeah."
The cop's brow wrinkles quizzically; his hand shoves into his pocket, the faded denim stretching over the fist. "You need a shower," he decrees, and rakes his hand through his hair. Green eyes look exasperated. "And some coffee. C'mon in. I'll buy you a cup. You drunk? --Never mind," he decides, gesturing dismissively. "None of my business. And I don't care. Cup of black, on me."
Benjamin wrinkles his nose, attempting to breathe in his own self-accustomed smell. "I do?" he wonders, taking a deep breath. "I--" he stops, pleased to not have to answer. "Cream," Benjamin requests as he leans forward to plunk after the cop.
"And you stink," Rossi says with a distant cordiality that emerges somewhat stifled. He increases the distance between them by a healthy margin, his long stride lengthening further, and takes the long way around: a front door man, in private life. "When was the last time you bathed, man?"
"Erm," Benjamin hums, chewing on his bottom lip. "Pretty sure it was yesterday or the day before." The boy lingers back and takes his time, allowing the distance with a tiny sigh. "How've you been?"
Rossi shrugs, rounding the corner to yank the cafe door open. A little bell tinkles, its quiet alarm almost drowned out by the noise inside the building itself. "Could be worse," he says agreeably, waving Benjamin in past him. "No major cases. Personal life's pretty peaceful. Family's healthy, and Mom hasn't asked me about grandchildren in almost a month. What's got your liver in a bunch? You and Nat break up?"
Benjamin tags along, bending his neck to scratch his cheek on his shoulder. He heavy-foots it nearly past Rossi before he stops, dead still. The look he crafts for Rossi is something of hurt, anger mixed in with confusion. "She's dead," he informs Rossi as if the butt of a cruel little joke. "Didn't... don't you--" Benjamin breathes uneasily, stepping down from his anger.
The cop, already shifting his weight to step in after Benjamin, finds himself stymied by the obstruction of the other man's body. He steadies, rocking back into the door. Black brows slash downward. "Dead?" he repeats, surprised. "The fuck. Really? You're shitting me. When?"
Benjamin steps back, away from the cool air and noise of the cafe. "She was in a plane crash," he mumbles, looking away from the detective to no particular point of interest.
"Plane crash," the cop echoes, leaning into the door's edge for a moment before straightening to let it go. It sighs slowly shut, drawn back to its rest state by the pneumatic hinge. Rossi's frown deepens as his eyes go blank. "This wasn't that -- last plane crash I heard of was the one heading to Australia."
"She was going to a math... thing. Convention. I dunno, giving a presentation or something. She was so excited about going to Australia." Benjamin's hand reaches back, finger scratching at his oily, unwashed hair.
"I'll be damned," Rossi says, refocusing on Benjamin with an attention that marks afresh the signs of dissipation on the young man. "Sorry to hear it, man. So that's why the--" His hand gestures, sweeping up, sweeping down to indicate the young man's state. "You decided to play Garbage Joe?"
Benjamin grumbles under his breath, still scratching at his greasy scalp. "I've had a rough day," he insists. "Rough few weeks."
Rossi eyes that scratching hand with distaste. "Yeah, I get that," he says, and pops the door open to offer entrance to Benjamin again. "A couple of days, I get, but this -- I thought you guys were just dating. Get inside." His hand moves towards his head, fingers curving as though to begin their own sympathetic scratching -- only to jerk down and thrust firmly into a pocket. No. "You don't got fleas or anything, do you?"
"Moved past just dating," Benjamin explains in a single huff of air. He scoots slowly into the cafe. "No, I don't. I'm really not-- I've just been a little out of it, all right? Shouldn't you be, I dunno, flipping out? You're family and all. How did you not know?"
"She was pretty clear that she didn't much enjoy having the Rossis around," says their local representative, without signs of particular distress. He shrugs, following Benjamin at a safe distance for olfactory sanity, and allows the door to slide shut behind him before heading towards the bar. His colleagues, already present, lift a hand in summons; he waves them away, and receives a finger for his pains. "We stopped bugging her. We're pretty pushy, but why go where we're really not wanted? She didn't seem to like me much, so I stayed out of her hair."
Benjamin frowns at this, looking a bit guilty at old gripes on the Rossi topic from his girlfriend. "She was really busy. She didn't--" he shrugs, not exactly having an excuse. "I'm getting better. But, hey. I'm keeping you from your, er, friends." It's said as if surprised of the fact Rossi has, well, friends. "Don't worry about me."
Rossi pauses, gives Benjamin a thorough once-over -- again -- and chuffs a snort. "Forget about it." He slaps at Benjamin's back, hard enough to sting if it connects, and nods towards one of the empty seats at the bar. "Grab a seat, you putz. My line of work, people die all the time. Once you're dead, you're dead. It's the survivors you deal with, and you're a fucking mess. --Coffee," he adds across the bar to the tender, who glances up and nods. "Cream, right? --Adams, for me."
Benjamin winces just slightly at the slap, though he smoothes himself out easily enough right away. It is no check against glass and boards, after all. It's the mention of death that sends him into a fidget before he can shove himself onto a bar stool and lean up against it heavily. "Right, cream. I'm going to be all right. But, y'know. It's only been two weeks. And a half? Hell, I don't even know."
"Everybody deals a little different," Rossi says, claiming his own seat next to Benjamin. He rests his elbows on the bar, stretching to the right to snag a bowl of chex mix that rattles on its way down the counter. It spins, pushed to a stop between the two men. "Can't say I haven't used booze before. Then again, I did it in the privacy of my own home. Don't know if that's better or worse. --Eat something," he suggests, and picks out a peanut for himself.
"It helps me," Benjamin insists as he digs out the little chex cereal pieces. "There isn't any harm to it, either. It just-- fuck. It just helps."
Rossi's shoulders roll, shifting and pulling the set of his jacket. "You been drinking all two and a half weeks?" he quizzes.
Benjamin snorts, eyes down on the counter. "I have a job. I can't afford to waste away, y'know."
"That's an implication," Rossi points out, and nods thanks to the bartender as the man returns with beer for him and cream-laced coffee for Benjamin. "Not an answer."
Benjamin pulls his coffe close, breathing the scent in. "I haven't gotten fired," he offers. "So I can't be too bad off."
The cop says mildly, "Still an implication, and still not an answer." He shrugs again, closes his hand around the beer glass's base, and lifts it in an absent-minded salute to -- who-knows-what. "Doesn't matter. You're a grown-up. I'm not your keeper."
"Mm," Benjamin hums, curling long fingers around the edges of the cup to take a careful sip. Too hot. "I'm fine," he says again.
Green eyes flicker towards Benjamin, with the cynical edge that suggests that Benjamin is a big fat stinking liar, and says nothing. He exudes skepticism instead. /Exudes/ it. Like a fine cologne.
Benjamin doesn't seem to notice. "This is pretty good," he observes into the pool of light brown ringed in chipped white ceramic. There are more little tastes of the coffee, chased with chex mix. "Man, I'll be up all night. Watch."
"When was the last time you ate?" Rossi asks, and twists, looking into the cafe behind them for a waitress. "For that matter, when was the last time you slept? Forget the last time you did your laundry. You and Nat got pretty close, huh? You were dating -- how long's it been?"
"You are asking questions that require remembering things. Like days. And when they end and begin." Benjamin pulls an emotionless smile for a split second before taking a serious pause. "Five months."
"Leah and me dated that long," Rossi observes into the mouth of his glass. He considers the array behind the bar as he drinks, expression abstracted. "Must be something about that anniversary that's lethal to girlfriends."
Benjamin takes a long look at him. "Leah?" he wonders. The coffee is pulled closer. "She-- oh, shit. Man. I'm sorry. Bet you handled it better, didn't you?"
Rossi glances sidelong at Benjamin, his expression quizzical. "Everyone deals a little different," he says mildly, which is an implication rather than an answer. He steeples his hand over the opening of his glass, long fingers spidering. "Doesn't matter. The cases aren't the same. --You should talk to someone."
Benjamin laughs, harsh and swift. "Even if I had the cash--" he starts, tipping his coffee up for a long sip. "No. No way. That's... weird, right? Who does that?" Benjamin slides up, shifting against the bar. "This is normal. I have every /right/ to be a little upset when my girlfriend dies."
"Upset, yeah," Rossi says, hitching his shoulders again. He loosely clasps his hands around the glass again, placing it, lifting it, placing it again to make interlinking circles of dampness on the countertop. "You got medical insurance, it should cover talking to someone -- and there are other people. Priests, friends, counselors--" He shakes his head to himself, and arcs a brow at Benjamin. "Everybody needs to talk to someone, sometime."
"I'm talking to you," Benjamin points out. He settles back over his drink, calm face washing over him with his point made. "You just caught me on a bad day."
Rossi grimaces, tossing back a little more beer before straightening to dig his wallet out of his back pocket. "One bad day," he says, and looks resigned. "If you say so. I'm not your keeper, thank God. You do what you need to do. Just don't take too long. Man's liver can only take so much, even at your age."
"I've had a few," Benjamin furthers uneasily. He leans his head down, dunking his top lip into the coffee for an undignified slurp. "Yeah, hey. Thanks. You didn't have to-- and you did. Maybe I'll talk to someone. Or something." Ben pulls his head up, turning bleary eyes on Rossi. "I'm sorry that you found out this way."
Clear, green ones turn to meet Ben's, then turn away. "Yeah, well." Rossi opens his wallet and thumbs out a few bills for the bartender. He slides off his stool, taking his beer glass in one hand while he shoves his billfold away. "Once got called out to a DB that turned out to be my girlfriend. I've had worse notifications. --Take care of yourself, Ben."
"Oh, fuck. I-- er. Thanks, detective. I will." Benjamin lingers with a hesitant gaze on the familiar man before swinging his head back to the last little bit of coffee.
Rossi takes a few steps towards his group, now laughing together over plates of fries, only to turn back after a split-second's hesitation. He drops a hand on Benjamin's shoulder. "Hey. Ben. If you want-- Nat may not have wanted it, but my family's around. You need to talk to people who knew her, gimme a call. Mom's good at listening."
There is a quick look up, perhaps a bit too quick as some of the coffee Benjamin was sipping is dribbled down his chin. "Oh," he inhales, wiping the liquid away. "I'd... yeah, I wouldn't mind. I don't want to really bother her parents too much. So... yeah." Benjamin falls into a sloppy smile. "Thanks. I probably will."
Wordless, Rossi tugs out his wallet again, pulls out a card, and offers it to Benjamin pincered between fore- and middle fingers. Det. Christopher Rossi, NYPD, Homicide. His phone number accompanies the badge, precinct, and fax number. That done, he touches a knuckle to his brow in lieu of salute farewell, and heads back to join his companions.
Benjamin takes the card, eyes immediately falling down to it. He fiddles with it for a few hesitant moments, weaving it through his fingers thoughtfully before safely pocketing it. His coffee mug is pushed away and Benjamin is up, slipping away from the cafe to partake in a much need shower.
[Log ends]
Cousin Nat is dead and her boyfriend smells funny.
The scent of the lively Life Cafe still lingers heavily on Benjamin, the musk of beer and whiskey on him. Ben has left the noisy atmosphere, mostly out of chance that his pocket has run empty long before his thirst was quenched. Baggy eyed and red-ringed he slouches against the wall in the back alley of the cafe, quietly enjoying the stench of yesterday's trash near the mouth of the damp, dark alleyway.
New York City's Finest is off today, inasmuch as he ever is; the sports jacket and tie, relics of the last shift, have a more casual flair when matched with blue jeans. Det. Rossi accompanies colleagues to the Life Cafe, conversation ping-ponged between masculine voices: four men, one alto-voiced woman. His, baritone and sardonic, pitches briefly loud as he glances askance in passing -- then stops, the recognition of a face stalling his progress. "You guys go on ahead," he tosses over his shoulder. "I think I see someone I -- Hey. /Benjy/."
Benjamin looks up, blinking heavily. His own shirt is tee-d and dingy, a little bit of grime dotting the bottom of it in a badge of lunch not long ago eaten. "Uh, detective," he murmurs, pushing himself off the wall. Hands immediately slip into his pockets as he stares firmly between his feet. "Evening."
The first few steps into the alley are halted as a breeze flutters, vomiting stench towards Rossi. The detective's nostrils flare incredulously, then pinch. "Holy--" he begins in a stifled voice. And then, because obscenities need closure, finishes with a breathless, "--fuck. You look like crap. What gives? You get evicted and start living in a dumpster? Jesus, kid--"
Benjamin bends back a little, eyes finally floating up to Rossi. "Yeah, no. Thanks," the boy grunts, untucking a hand long enough to wave it. "It's just been rough. You know. Since... yeah."
The cop's brow wrinkles quizzically; his hand shoves into his pocket, the faded denim stretching over the fist. "You need a shower," he decrees, and rakes his hand through his hair. Green eyes look exasperated. "And some coffee. C'mon in. I'll buy you a cup. You drunk? --Never mind," he decides, gesturing dismissively. "None of my business. And I don't care. Cup of black, on me."
Benjamin wrinkles his nose, attempting to breathe in his own self-accustomed smell. "I do?" he wonders, taking a deep breath. "I--" he stops, pleased to not have to answer. "Cream," Benjamin requests as he leans forward to plunk after the cop.
"And you stink," Rossi says with a distant cordiality that emerges somewhat stifled. He increases the distance between them by a healthy margin, his long stride lengthening further, and takes the long way around: a front door man, in private life. "When was the last time you bathed, man?"
"Erm," Benjamin hums, chewing on his bottom lip. "Pretty sure it was yesterday or the day before." The boy lingers back and takes his time, allowing the distance with a tiny sigh. "How've you been?"
Rossi shrugs, rounding the corner to yank the cafe door open. A little bell tinkles, its quiet alarm almost drowned out by the noise inside the building itself. "Could be worse," he says agreeably, waving Benjamin in past him. "No major cases. Personal life's pretty peaceful. Family's healthy, and Mom hasn't asked me about grandchildren in almost a month. What's got your liver in a bunch? You and Nat break up?"
Benjamin tags along, bending his neck to scratch his cheek on his shoulder. He heavy-foots it nearly past Rossi before he stops, dead still. The look he crafts for Rossi is something of hurt, anger mixed in with confusion. "She's dead," he informs Rossi as if the butt of a cruel little joke. "Didn't... don't you--" Benjamin breathes uneasily, stepping down from his anger.
The cop, already shifting his weight to step in after Benjamin, finds himself stymied by the obstruction of the other man's body. He steadies, rocking back into the door. Black brows slash downward. "Dead?" he repeats, surprised. "The fuck. Really? You're shitting me. When?"
Benjamin steps back, away from the cool air and noise of the cafe. "She was in a plane crash," he mumbles, looking away from the detective to no particular point of interest.
"Plane crash," the cop echoes, leaning into the door's edge for a moment before straightening to let it go. It sighs slowly shut, drawn back to its rest state by the pneumatic hinge. Rossi's frown deepens as his eyes go blank. "This wasn't that -- last plane crash I heard of was the one heading to Australia."
"She was going to a math... thing. Convention. I dunno, giving a presentation or something. She was so excited about going to Australia." Benjamin's hand reaches back, finger scratching at his oily, unwashed hair.
"I'll be damned," Rossi says, refocusing on Benjamin with an attention that marks afresh the signs of dissipation on the young man. "Sorry to hear it, man. So that's why the--" His hand gestures, sweeping up, sweeping down to indicate the young man's state. "You decided to play Garbage Joe?"
Benjamin grumbles under his breath, still scratching at his greasy scalp. "I've had a rough day," he insists. "Rough few weeks."
Rossi eyes that scratching hand with distaste. "Yeah, I get that," he says, and pops the door open to offer entrance to Benjamin again. "A couple of days, I get, but this -- I thought you guys were just dating. Get inside." His hand moves towards his head, fingers curving as though to begin their own sympathetic scratching -- only to jerk down and thrust firmly into a pocket. No. "You don't got fleas or anything, do you?"
"Moved past just dating," Benjamin explains in a single huff of air. He scoots slowly into the cafe. "No, I don't. I'm really not-- I've just been a little out of it, all right? Shouldn't you be, I dunno, flipping out? You're family and all. How did you not know?"
"She was pretty clear that she didn't much enjoy having the Rossis around," says their local representative, without signs of particular distress. He shrugs, following Benjamin at a safe distance for olfactory sanity, and allows the door to slide shut behind him before heading towards the bar. His colleagues, already present, lift a hand in summons; he waves them away, and receives a finger for his pains. "We stopped bugging her. We're pretty pushy, but why go where we're really not wanted? She didn't seem to like me much, so I stayed out of her hair."
Benjamin frowns at this, looking a bit guilty at old gripes on the Rossi topic from his girlfriend. "She was really busy. She didn't--" he shrugs, not exactly having an excuse. "I'm getting better. But, hey. I'm keeping you from your, er, friends." It's said as if surprised of the fact Rossi has, well, friends. "Don't worry about me."
Rossi pauses, gives Benjamin a thorough once-over -- again -- and chuffs a snort. "Forget about it." He slaps at Benjamin's back, hard enough to sting if it connects, and nods towards one of the empty seats at the bar. "Grab a seat, you putz. My line of work, people die all the time. Once you're dead, you're dead. It's the survivors you deal with, and you're a fucking mess. --Coffee," he adds across the bar to the tender, who glances up and nods. "Cream, right? --Adams, for me."
Benjamin winces just slightly at the slap, though he smoothes himself out easily enough right away. It is no check against glass and boards, after all. It's the mention of death that sends him into a fidget before he can shove himself onto a bar stool and lean up against it heavily. "Right, cream. I'm going to be all right. But, y'know. It's only been two weeks. And a half? Hell, I don't even know."
"Everybody deals a little different," Rossi says, claiming his own seat next to Benjamin. He rests his elbows on the bar, stretching to the right to snag a bowl of chex mix that rattles on its way down the counter. It spins, pushed to a stop between the two men. "Can't say I haven't used booze before. Then again, I did it in the privacy of my own home. Don't know if that's better or worse. --Eat something," he suggests, and picks out a peanut for himself.
"It helps me," Benjamin insists as he digs out the little chex cereal pieces. "There isn't any harm to it, either. It just-- fuck. It just helps."
Rossi's shoulders roll, shifting and pulling the set of his jacket. "You been drinking all two and a half weeks?" he quizzes.
Benjamin snorts, eyes down on the counter. "I have a job. I can't afford to waste away, y'know."
"That's an implication," Rossi points out, and nods thanks to the bartender as the man returns with beer for him and cream-laced coffee for Benjamin. "Not an answer."
Benjamin pulls his coffe close, breathing the scent in. "I haven't gotten fired," he offers. "So I can't be too bad off."
The cop says mildly, "Still an implication, and still not an answer." He shrugs again, closes his hand around the beer glass's base, and lifts it in an absent-minded salute to -- who-knows-what. "Doesn't matter. You're a grown-up. I'm not your keeper."
"Mm," Benjamin hums, curling long fingers around the edges of the cup to take a careful sip. Too hot. "I'm fine," he says again.
Green eyes flicker towards Benjamin, with the cynical edge that suggests that Benjamin is a big fat stinking liar, and says nothing. He exudes skepticism instead. /Exudes/ it. Like a fine cologne.
Benjamin doesn't seem to notice. "This is pretty good," he observes into the pool of light brown ringed in chipped white ceramic. There are more little tastes of the coffee, chased with chex mix. "Man, I'll be up all night. Watch."
"When was the last time you ate?" Rossi asks, and twists, looking into the cafe behind them for a waitress. "For that matter, when was the last time you slept? Forget the last time you did your laundry. You and Nat got pretty close, huh? You were dating -- how long's it been?"
"You are asking questions that require remembering things. Like days. And when they end and begin." Benjamin pulls an emotionless smile for a split second before taking a serious pause. "Five months."
"Leah and me dated that long," Rossi observes into the mouth of his glass. He considers the array behind the bar as he drinks, expression abstracted. "Must be something about that anniversary that's lethal to girlfriends."
Benjamin takes a long look at him. "Leah?" he wonders. The coffee is pulled closer. "She-- oh, shit. Man. I'm sorry. Bet you handled it better, didn't you?"
Rossi glances sidelong at Benjamin, his expression quizzical. "Everyone deals a little different," he says mildly, which is an implication rather than an answer. He steeples his hand over the opening of his glass, long fingers spidering. "Doesn't matter. The cases aren't the same. --You should talk to someone."
Benjamin laughs, harsh and swift. "Even if I had the cash--" he starts, tipping his coffee up for a long sip. "No. No way. That's... weird, right? Who does that?" Benjamin slides up, shifting against the bar. "This is normal. I have every /right/ to be a little upset when my girlfriend dies."
"Upset, yeah," Rossi says, hitching his shoulders again. He loosely clasps his hands around the glass again, placing it, lifting it, placing it again to make interlinking circles of dampness on the countertop. "You got medical insurance, it should cover talking to someone -- and there are other people. Priests, friends, counselors--" He shakes his head to himself, and arcs a brow at Benjamin. "Everybody needs to talk to someone, sometime."
"I'm talking to you," Benjamin points out. He settles back over his drink, calm face washing over him with his point made. "You just caught me on a bad day."
Rossi grimaces, tossing back a little more beer before straightening to dig his wallet out of his back pocket. "One bad day," he says, and looks resigned. "If you say so. I'm not your keeper, thank God. You do what you need to do. Just don't take too long. Man's liver can only take so much, even at your age."
"I've had a few," Benjamin furthers uneasily. He leans his head down, dunking his top lip into the coffee for an undignified slurp. "Yeah, hey. Thanks. You didn't have to-- and you did. Maybe I'll talk to someone. Or something." Ben pulls his head up, turning bleary eyes on Rossi. "I'm sorry that you found out this way."
Clear, green ones turn to meet Ben's, then turn away. "Yeah, well." Rossi opens his wallet and thumbs out a few bills for the bartender. He slides off his stool, taking his beer glass in one hand while he shoves his billfold away. "Once got called out to a DB that turned out to be my girlfriend. I've had worse notifications. --Take care of yourself, Ben."
"Oh, fuck. I-- er. Thanks, detective. I will." Benjamin lingers with a hesitant gaze on the familiar man before swinging his head back to the last little bit of coffee.
Rossi takes a few steps towards his group, now laughing together over plates of fries, only to turn back after a split-second's hesitation. He drops a hand on Benjamin's shoulder. "Hey. Ben. If you want-- Nat may not have wanted it, but my family's around. You need to talk to people who knew her, gimme a call. Mom's good at listening."
There is a quick look up, perhaps a bit too quick as some of the coffee Benjamin was sipping is dribbled down his chin. "Oh," he inhales, wiping the liquid away. "I'd... yeah, I wouldn't mind. I don't want to really bother her parents too much. So... yeah." Benjamin falls into a sloppy smile. "Thanks. I probably will."
Wordless, Rossi tugs out his wallet again, pulls out a card, and offers it to Benjamin pincered between fore- and middle fingers. Det. Christopher Rossi, NYPD, Homicide. His phone number accompanies the badge, precinct, and fax number. That done, he touches a knuckle to his brow in lieu of salute farewell, and heads back to join his companions.
Benjamin takes the card, eyes immediately falling down to it. He fiddles with it for a few hesitant moments, weaving it through his fingers thoughtfully before safely pocketing it. His coffee mug is pushed away and Benjamin is up, slipping away from the cafe to partake in a much need shower.
[Log ends]
Cousin Nat is dead and her boyfriend smells funny.