Michael sticks with a refill of Questionable Coke while the three new arrivals order beers. It’s not that he hates drinking, he just doesn’t love it as much as everyone else seems to, doesn’t see the attraction. Now that Lee isn’t supposed to be doing it anymore, he’s stopped almost completely, as though their health is connected and it’s a rule he should observe too.
Sinclair, now seated between Gabby and Tzipporah, crosses his legs and leans back in his seat. “I’m glad no one’s dead, too,” he says, raising his eyebrows and shrugging.
Michael is pretty sure Sinclair’s the kind of person who always means two or three things at once, like Don—except when he starts talking about politics. Then he wants everyone to know exactly what he means. Michael finds him at his most relatable when he’s ranting about the government. The rest of the time he finds him slightly intimidating, possibly due to the combination of his attractiveness (which Michael had reluctantly accepted as fact sometime last year) and his history of being repeatedly thrown in jail.
“Yes, alright, we’re not dead, let’s move on,” Michael grumbles, waving a hand as though he’s shooing the idea away.
“Yeah, move on to telling us what we’re here for.” Gabby continues looking at him sweetly. An order shouldn’t sound so adorable. He doesn’t like being bossed around, and she’s definitely trying to boss him. Right? He stares back at her, furrowing his eyebrows. Definitely the most confusing.