“Jonathan,” whispered Gilbert, “why are we here again?”
Jonathan frowned. “I’m hungry.”
. Let’s go home. It’s late. I have a history exam tomorrow and a book waiting on the…” He sighed. It was too late.
Jonathan had already staggered over to the counter, where a pretty brunette forced a smile and asked him, “Hello. May I take your order?”
“You,” slurred Jonathan, leaning over the counter, “may take my—Gilbert.”
Jonathan looked down at his friend, who was tugging on his sleeve. “Gil!” he said dazedly. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m sorry, sir, I'm not interested in a Gilbert,” replied the brunette.
"Well that's not very nice. I like him. Sometimes." He was trying to swat Gilbert's hands off of him.
"Sir, what would you like to order?" the cashier asked, more firmly this time.
"I would like—Gilbert!"
Gilbert had kicked him in the shin.
"I'm afraid we are not currently offering Gilberts on our menu," the brunette answered in a deadpan.
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