“No, no, I can’t,” Michael replies, shaking his head. “I’ll just throw up everywhere like in The Exorcist.”
He’s unaware of how tightly he grips their hand once they offer it to him. It’s still cool outside, so their hand is chilly; they can’t retain body heat for anything. He, on the other hand, feels like he’s about to catch on fire, wishes the window could open or he could ask Shem for an entire bag of ice to shove his head into. He stares out onto the street wistfully—what is it out there, 50-something degrees?—when someone catches his eye and his head whips back toward Wolfgang.
“Fuck, okay. Just—ignore everything he says, okay? We’ll get through this and then we’ll go.” It’s hard to tell which of them he’s talking to.
The words have just finished leaving his mouth when the bell on the door rings, signaling a new arrival. “Michael!” Morris says excitedly, already taking off his hat and coat as he walks toward them. Michael doesn’t know whether to let go of Wolfgang’s hand or keep holding on for dear life; as a middle-of-the-road option, he pulls their hands underneath the table.
“I am glad to see you are both here,” his father continues, settling into the booth across from them. Most of his attention quickly diverts to Wolfgang, eyeing them up and down, though he does spare Michael a couple glances. “You know how he is with the jokes,” he says, like Wolfgang will understand. “I was thinking maybe this is a prank.”