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Summary
“Cobb is straight, isn’t he?”
Arthur snapped his pencil, the sound particularly loud in the quiet of Cobb’s somewhat ostentatious rental BMW that Eames did not personally think was ideal for surveillance. “What?” he asked far too quickly and irritably as he dug in the side pocket of the bag on the floor under his legs for his little manual pencil sharpener. Eames wasn’t sure when Arthur had started using pencils instead of his overpriced refillable ink pens, but he wasn’t going to ask because he suspected that it might be considered creepy that he’d noticed.
“Dominic Cobb is straight. Right?” Eames repeated. Arthur, pencil sharpener in hand, just stared at him, stone-faced, for a moment that stretched on so long that Eames actually began to feel uncomfortable.
“Gross. That’s not funny. It’s really gross,” Arthur said at last.
