So the point was, Jamie wasn't sixty. He was meant to be capable of serious balon, and to jump like he did it fifty times a night and again in class the following day, because he uh, did. He was meant to be a lot of things and they weren't going to materialize again if he ate diner burgers even if he kind of had to pray-hope-plea for a miracle that he could, you know, do it again.
Which wasn't exactly Jamie's thing. But okay, the guy in back might be insulted by the bee-tee-whatever and Sid here was clearly going to hoover something else before the lunch-lull was through. Jamie hadn't exactly touched his omelette - or rather, he'd touched it a lot, he just hadn't eaten a ton of it - but he was kind of through too.
"Yeah, I'm pretty sure you wreck my moment of self-satisfied certainty it's all filth and my body is my temple," lies, he had a pack of cigarettes in his bag and the only thing worth not having to get up for class in the morning for, was all the things that made getting up for class hard, "I will find it excruciating to walk away. I have no self-control, none." He flashed a grin, less sunny, more sultry. It was kind of true and it wasn't
"See you around, Sid. Come take a class sometime. Who knows, you might be Nureyev."