Ziggy and I rendezvoused that Sunday, our “day off,” at the same hotel in the middle of nowhere as earlier in the week.
When I got to the room I realized it was a different one. I said something witty and observant like: “Hey, this is a different room.”
“Course it is,” he said, stripping his shirt over his head and making an utter wreck of his gelled hair by doing so. “The microwave was shot in the other one. I want you to touch every inch of my skin.”