Last time he picked me up in his car but today he tells me to take the MARTA. He shows off the grapes in his fridge, two bags, $3.50 per at ALDI, you wouldn’t get this deal in Massachusetts! His friend hosts a barbecue, a crowd of middle-aged gays, botox faces and shaved legs, are they always like this? Yes; they do a lot of ketamine. He and his fiancée show me the tulips and frogs at the botanical gardens. The crosswalks in Midtown are painted rainbow, Biden relic? No, Obama. Back in the apartment before dinner, please stop eating so much of my fruit. That’s my bad. Inman Park is heavy in moist air, the Beltline a long moat, gentrifier murals gobbling up brick townhouses. He asks me about my future and I can’t stop eating this restaurant’s expensive hummus. Don’t go pre-med unless you know you love it, well, I’m really just after the job stability. His apartment marinates, midnight rain. Can you leave me at least half a bag of grapes? Yes, sorry. The gym is empty, the dog wants to be walked, he is at work even though it is his birthday. I guess it’s probably good for you, to be napping so much. His car suffocates in pollen. I carry conversation at dinner, him and his fiancée and their friend a trio of Yale-graduate introverts, so tell me about that new crypto job? I didn’t need a gift, a card is enough, okay, I’m sorry. I’m a bad brother, you’re fine. Make sure to take the silver line to South Station from the airport. Watch out for fentanyl in party drugs. You’ll hurt your fingers if you cut the pineapple like that. See you later. ⬥