I should probably start by admitting that when I turned that corner and saw him — yes, him, my sponsor, the ridiculous peacock of a man in his feathered black robe, blonde ponytail draped down like he was auditioning for the role of "Mysterious Stranger No. 3" in some tragic opera — I wasn't even surprised.
Not a blink, not a gasp, not even the courtesy of fainting dead away on the carpet, which honestly might have been the more reasonable option.
At this point in my life, I had transcended the ability to be shocked. When the world insists on juggling knives and setting itself on fire every other Tuesday, you eventually stop asking why and just start wondering how long until one of the knives lands in your shoulder.
So I just stood there, arms crossed, tea still faintly burning my tongue, staring at him like he was a stubborn ink blot on a page I'd already crumpled twice.
