"You're not going to tell me where you got it?" says Francois.
"It was a gift."
"Yeah, but from who?"
The coffee maker is now sputtering the last of its forces into the pot, and the dark brew already fills the glass container like a dread presence. Instead of replying, I spring up and grab us each a mug and begin pouring. Now that I have returned to the table, Francois seems to have given up the chase. Or perhaps, as a form of bargaining, or perhaps blackmail, I could ask him first to tell me why he had to change his pyjamas last night. He doesn't seem ready to budge, and that works for me. Now Carl has appeared, his lithe and muscular body enhanced and gleaming in but a skimpy pair of tight red bikini briefs that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. "Good morning", he chimes, and yes he is again up for play and mischief.
As he pours himself coffee, Francois grumbles, "Um, is your bathrobe in the laundry?"
"I didn't bring one."
"I could lend you one of my dad's robes?" say I.
"Oh, must we?" he says while stirring sugar and cream into his mug.
"Yes, we must", says Francois.
Dad left behind three robes in the bedroom closet. This dark green velour number would look striking on Carl. In fact, I also like his dark blue terry cloth number. Always have, and although I am relatively decent in jogging shorts and white T shirt, I think I will.
"Here you are", I tell Carl back in the kitchen, and with affected petulance, he reaches to accept the green robe, and wraps himself in it.
To Francios he says, "Did you just change your pyjamas, Francois?"
"I don't know", he mutters, now clearly in an ill humour. "Maybe."
"And who were you dreaming about?"
"None of your business!" he snaps.
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