In the sitting room, Sushi's explanatory rant had built up a full head of steam. Otto sat forgotten in the shadows as Summer's head tracked Sushi's pacing, turning back and forth like a tennis spectator's.
"So then he has the spikes to ask if we're cool, like nothing even happened, so of course I—" Sushi reared back and slapped the air in front of her with a satisfied grunt. "—told him no we're not cool, but then he does some stupid thing with his face and makes it go all manly and confusing and—"
A huge, knowing smile flashed across Summer's face.
"You like him."
"I do not," protested Sushi. "I abominate him. I loathe every anatomical molecule of his whole wretched—He can rot in a festering—"
"I knew it!" Summer cried, then began chanting joyfully. "You like him. You like him. You—"
"Stop it! Obviously. Ok? Now are you going to be a total immature little gumball or are you going to help with the scheming?"
"Ooh, scheming, definitely."
"Good."
* * *
Above them, in the darkness of the tower room, Zen lay dead still in his hammock, exhausted and wide awake. The ideas were beginning again. A storm of possibilities whirled through his mind, pattering as soft and numerous as snowflakes, piling up faster than they could melt away.
Philosophical restaurant. Invite only friends who would understand. They can invite friends who would understand. Or you could earn the right to invite someone by making a particularly insightful comment. Or asking an exceptional question. Everybody could get a token coming in the door, and reward each other by giving tokens, and the one with the most tokens gets to...what? Bring in a new friend next time. Pick the meal. Set the starting question. It could become a secret society, growing by one each week, word of mouth only, slowly branching out and spreading into new locations. The place where truly thoughtful, interesting people meet, where the game-changers mold each others' ideas, where movements start, where society—
No.
With an effort, he stopped himself. The reinvention of society could wait. It would be a meal with friends, a place to meet new people, have interesting conversations, make some money on the side.
The calculations began again, unstoppable, taking on a life of their own, running down a track they'd worn smooth. Twenty people, twenty-five dollars a head, four hundred dollars to work with, and a hundred left over, four times a month, sometimes five, and he'd have his share of the rent without ever selling an article. He could focus on fun writing, or good writing, not worry about churning out anything he could think of just to scrape by.
His mind began drifting toward sleep, batting at the question of capital with invisible cat's paws. Party-as-fundraiser had failed completely. A claw caught on something. Not completely. Zen lay in the stillness, letting the answer drift into his mind. And then he had it. The keg deposit.
With a faint smile, Zen finally fell asleep.