![]() In the eight months I’ve known him, he’s slept here twice: One night he worked so late before the store’s grand opening he could barely walk to our place, let alone drive home. It isn’t the first time he’s crashed at my place the loft is only a few blocks from the store so we gave Oliver a key in case he ever needed to let one of us in, fix a leaky faucet, or make a quick sandwich on a break. Limp-legged, arms askew, and with his neck at an angle that will be sore when he wakes. ![]() His shirt rides up to his ribs, exposing a flat stomach cut down the middle with a dark line of hair. One of his feet is flat on the floor the other hangs over the end of the couch. He’s sprawled awkwardly, so long and angled. ![]() I don’t even remember walking home from the bar, so I don’t fully believe my eyes when I find Oliver asleep on my couch at 7 a.m. ![]() I’M A ZOMBIE before coffee, especially after a night of shots and celebration and who knows what else. ![]()
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