“Coffee!” he croaks pathetically.
I push his cup across the counter.
He shovels in five spoons of sugar and takes a gulp, swearing because it’s hot.
“Rough night?” I ask sweetly.
The patented Kinney death glare’s augmented by the reddened, dark-circled eyes of a major hangover.
I shrug. “Self-inflicted. No sympathy.”
He gulps down the rest of the cup, grabs the back of my neck and kisses me roughly.
“It’s not self-inflicted if it’s self defense,” he claims as he heads for the door.. “It’s the only fucking way any self respecting fag can survive dinner with their fucking mother-in-law.”
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