I made myself a drink with his expensive scotch and lay on his expensive couch. For some reason, I felt uneasy. “K?” I asked. He didn’t answer. “K?” I asked again, deciding that he, under the influence of too much alcohol, passed out somewhere out of view. I turned on the television and watched a show about winter in upstate New York.

I fell asleep.

When I woke up, my coat had been thrown over me. K was banging around in the kitchen.

I sat up. “What time is it?”

“Five,” he called from behind me.

“What are you doing up?”

“Making waffles. Want some?”

“I guess,” I whined.

He dropped a plate of waffles on my lap, returned to the kitchen.

We hadn’t spoken about what had happened several nights prior, and amidst the lunacy of the waffle conversation, I felt the need to speak up.

“K,” I said from his couch. “I’m going to kill you.”

“Huh,” he replied cooly. “I feel the same way.”

I didn’t get the joke he was trying to make. He continued: “How are the waffles?”

“Fine,” I replied, not yet aware of what had just happened.

Then an uncomfortable silence settled in.