"The doctor says it's not even contagious," you clarify to her rapidly disappearing form. "And by 'doctor' I mean Beefsteak Billy, the hobo that sleeps in my car, and by 'not contagious' I of course mean he said, 'You should get that checked out as soon as possible.' "
She turns to you, righteous indignation coloring her cheeks, and then suddenly lapses into stunned silence.
"No," she finally assembles the words. "I thought you were dead after the last time!"
"You shouldn't think too hard about these things," you casually answer. "You know there are stupid kids in China that only get to think once a day?"
In front of you, a dozen tiny, empty bottles rattle on the tray table. At first you were angry that they were trying to gyp you with these miniature liquors, but now you find that you enjoy the way they make you feel: Like a giant. Like a violent, drunken giant.
"Anybody wanna peanut?" you scream into the face of the man seated next to you. He does not stir. Wow, hey -- he must have some fantastic shit. You rifle through his coatpockets, coming up with myriad bottles, vials and cases of little paper tabs -- most of which have labels typed in something you suspect is not an actual language.