“Hey! Listen, Mr. I-Never-Let-Eisen-Forget-When-I’m-Right,” the grin on Eisen’s face was huge, belying the seriousness of his tirade, but he couldn’t have cared less if he tried. “I’m entitled my gloat-fest. I’m actually right for once! This is the climactic battle-win in the Eisen autobiographical movie!” he nodded excitedly. “The best friend, who is always right about everything ever, isn’t right for once! Eisen gets to take his triumphant momentary stroll down victory lane and hold his head high because for once, he was right…” he paused. “Of course it’s only temporary, because in about ten minutes, you’ll be right and I’ll be wrong again and all will be right with the world.” He grinned.
Rory’s mood, to Eisen, didn’t need mentioning. When you’d been friends with someone for as long as Eisen had been friends with Rory, you picked up on little subtleties in their demeanor. When they were sad, they did this, when they were mad, they did that. When Rory was feeling depressed, Eisen picked up on it like it was his job. Mostly because, to him, it was his job.
His jaw fell open in an exaggerated sign of irritation when Rory called him a terrorist. “Terrorist. Really,” he huffed. “Well, all right, if we’re going down this road, my demands are a five album record deal, seven guitars – one for each day of the week, of course – and a house in California. Oh, yeah, you can stay there too, if you so choose,” he added the last part dismissively. “Oh, and a cooking show. Everyone seems to think that I need one anyway.”