After listening to some smooth jazz on the 36 floor ride down [you’ve always wondered where the hell they actually BOUGHT those call-on-hold and elevator music “soundtracks”] the industrial heavy doors slide open revealing the lobby and—-lo and behold, this little shit-wiener here.
> Fold you arms across your chest.
CC: well i’ll be
CC: …you little stinker. what’d you do, pull some ninja backflip shit to get down here? ha.
You push at Dave playfully, before sprinting across the lobby—-shit yeah, sprinting, forget being the “adult” here—-and out into the night.
Once outside, you let out a hearty whoop of your own, punching your fists skyward. Good god it was a gorgeous neon evening. Weaving between some straggling party-goer pedestrians, you come up to where your motorcycle was parked; all sleek silver chrome and candy-apple red. You look over your shoulder at Dave, your mouth quirked up on one side.
CC: you ready chickadee?