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Outside our booth window sat a table full of Goths who clutched their coffee mugs like weapons and glared at anyone who got too close. An apparent dress code of mile-high spiked hair, ten pounds of facial piercings, and exposed boxers made the sidewalks an even bigger freak show.
Across the table, my roommate, Marc Gillam, stretched his arms above his head. The metal bracelet on his wrist clanked on the back of the booth. His mouth gaped in a silent yawn.
“Ready to go back yet?” I asked.
“Nope. Are you?”
“Oh, no. I love sitting here with my contacts getting all grainy and my chin dragging in my latte. I’m good.” I took another gulp. “Just surprised you want to stay out this late on a test night.”
“As if you care about tests.” Marc stared out the window.
He was right—I didn’t care.
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