The steady hum of the exhaust fan canceled out the Phish album that Chester was playing at a lowered volume over the kitchen stereo. He was still sulking next to the prep sink, a frown carved into his face, as he recalled being yelled at by Stacy minutes earlier. He kept his eyes off of Clayton, who was ripping off bits of lettuce and throwing them in the deep fryer.
Clayton and Stacy. Stacy and Clayton. It turned his frown further downward.
Whatever it was, Chester never asked, as he didn't want to know. He had seen Stacy lead Clayton off to the bathroom at Gatsby's by the hand, but it was enough to explain why Clayton never got in trouble. Clayton also got to share Stacy's coke, something which Chester desperately needed at this time.
No such preoccupations entered Clayton's mind as the shreds of lettuce sputtered and spun, their moisture evaporating in the nearly four hundred degree grease. Clayton didn't even notice the smell of the fryers as he breathed through his mouth.
Outside, the sun had just sunk below the horizon, but enough residual glow painted the sky a macabre red, which reflected in the windows of now vacant cottages down the beach. The red was too deep to be mistaken for actual fire, but imbued the cottages with an enticing cozy feel all the same, especially given the cold autumn winds that were howling off the lake.
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