“That is not what I meant,” Jon says, chopping his arms down on the word ‘said.’
He paces the length of the seacan, before realising there’s nowhere to go, and return back to face me.
“Everyone was going on about it,” he says plaintively, “what was I supposed to do?”
“Quit making this about everyone else but you,” I say, “we’re the ones stuck in a shipping container - not ‘everyone else.‘”
Under this new line Jon visibly deflates. Jesus he’s sensitive.
I decide that I need to take it down a notch. If he keeps huffing like this we’re going to run out of air before we even get to port. He beats me to the punch, though-
“Charlie would have a poem for an occasion like this,” he muses patting at his empty pockets. Oh great, is he going to start fiending for a cigarette? Maybe I’ll get lucky and Jon will kill me before I asphyxiate.
“Koan on being trapped in a can, by Charlie Gupta…” I smirk invisibly in the dark.