Little bubbles of conversation float above the squabbling murmur of the room, popping into moments of clarity and vanishing into the atmosphere. Caleb itches at the crown of his thinning pate, dirty fingernails dug between follicles with miner zeal. ‘I mean, you never stop wanting to have sex with other women,’ he says, taking another drink, doing a rub your head and pat your stomach routine. ‘These days it’s too much trouble,’ he says with failed acceptance. ‘I’ll just wind up disappointing some girl.’ It makes a sad kind of sense. ‘But you never stop wanting to do it.’

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