I saw him in the elevator in the evening, long after Erica had already given me a highly detailed account of their entire night. His hair didn’t give him the flamboyant appearance of a cockerel on this occasion. A stripe of long soft hair ran down the middle of his scalp, framed by bristly dark hair on the sides. The hair that wasn’t shaved flopped carelessly over his eyes and hung by his ears. We acknowledged each other awkwardly, and the door sprung open to my hallway. Turning, I hugged him the only way you can hug a guy who just banged your best friend: eyes to the ceiling, nose and mouth away from his cheek, ass out.
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