He deserves this -- it’s his birthday. Thank God for Tate Darby, Andrew woke up one year older and a bottle of Macallan in his bed. Naturally he’s been a constant state of inebriation, it’s Saturday so he doesn’t have to worry about showing up to class or work smelling like a distillery. You only turn thirty-two once -- you only turn every age once but that’s besides the point. Andrew winds a hand through sweaty sticky curls as he walks up to her door, it’s the scotch that motivates his movements, alcohol always makes him braver than he really is, which should say something because he’s been in war combat. But Andrew would rather do another tour in Afghanistan than confront a woman. But here he is, knocking on her knock incessantly. She has to open the door eventually. “Open the door, Jang,” he slurs loudly.