15 minutes of honest conversation; the rest of the world ceases to exist.
We debate whether birthdays are worth celebrating. I ask him to name all of the drugs he's ever done, and the best one (alcohol) and the worst one (alcohol). I tell him I've never actually been drunk before, but I've pretended a few times. He tells me he's an awful father. I tell him I have a sugar addiction. He tells me about the times that he's dressed up in nice suits and hid behind the vending machine at a ritzy hotel, just so he can come down the next morning and eat from the free buffet. We talk about depression, religion, appearance, fairness, my fingernails ("What's wrong with my fingernails?!"), and ghost stories.
"Are you mad at me, because I don't care about birthdays?" He asks.
Today, in this office, souls are bared.