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Summary
"One day, we could leave this all behind," Allen said later, staring at the ceiling, still naked. Against the white of the linens and washed out by the morning light, he was something of a ghost. "You and me, straight down the line, right?"
Link didn't say anything at first. He was sitting at the far end of the bed, buttoning his shirt back up. Slowly, processing everything Allen was saying, he folded his cuffs into position. He hated wearing day-old clothes. He'd have to change immediately upon returning home.
"Yeah," Allen continued, not waiting for Link's response, maybe not even anticipating one at all. "You have your baking. I have my piano. We could move somewhere far away. Maybe up North, where there's no Prohibition laws and we could drink champagne all day. You, me, and Montreal."