Page 6 of Sending Love Letters to Animals

“Did you watch it?”

I rolled my eyes. “It wasn’t even that good, D. I mean—”

“Are you messing with me right now?” He asked as he shifted in his chair. “Like, for seriously?”

“’For seriously’ is not even a real phrase.”

He ignored me. “I heard Mark Baskin use it the other day. I’m practically an influencer, bro.”

“Right.”

“That’s not important,” he said. “What’s important is the filth that just came out of your mouth.”

“Filth?” I feigned offense.

“You’re trying to tell me that Big Trouble in Little China is not a cinematic masterpiece?” He continued. “Come on.”

“I mean,” I shrugged, “it was cool, man. Action and sci-fi stuff. It had some funny bits, yeah. But it’s entertaining at best.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Davud rested his hands on the arms of his chair.

That was a signal that he was ready to verbally battle me over any opinion I had about any movie we disagreed on.

“Nothing’s wrong with that,” I admitted. “But the whole point of us recommending cult classics to each other is to expand our minds about what cinema can be. It’s a campy action sci-fi flick. You didn’t even really try, man.”

“Kurt Russell at his finest,” Davud proclaimed.

“The bar ain’t that high.”

Davud laughed, so I grinned along.

“Hedwig and the Angry Inch,” I said, “that’s cinema.”

Davud rolled his eyes. “Dude. It was another musical. You only recommend musicals.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“What’s wrong with action sci-fi comedy?” He countered.

I smiled. Davud grinned slyly and shifted in his chair. Though most people wouldn’t have seen it, I noticed how a quick grimace overtook his smile for the briefest of moments. Then it was gone. Davud returned his hands to the tabletop, clasping his hands on top of his book.

“How was Chicago?” I asked quietly.

Davud glanced around the room before returning his eyes to me. He seemed to deflate a bit, then simply shook his head at me.

“Don’t think I’ll be signing up for dance classes this semester, man.”

I sighed. “Man. That’s four years running. They’re going to stop holding a spot for you if you don’t get your shit together quickly.”

He managed a laugh.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m beginning to think this spine injury might be permanent or something.”

“Oof. Dark.”

He shrugged.

“Missed you last week,” I said. “Journalism Club isn’t as fun without you.”