Then he nodded toward the table.
On it was a stack of my canceled subscription confirmation emails printed out.
Printed.
Like we were going to court.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“So you don’t re-sign up in a weak moment,” he said.
“You printed them?”
“I trust paper,” he said. “Paper doesn’t beg you at midnight.”
I sat down, and he put a plate in front of me: two eggs, toast, and a line of ketchup like he’d measured it.
“Eat,” he said.
I ate.
And it was good.
Not in the “I paid extra for this” way.
In the “this will actually keep me alive” way.
Silence stretched.
Finally, I said what I’d been thinking since last night.
“Frank,” I said, “I’m not… stupid.”
He grunted.
“I know I spend too much,” I continued. “But you act like… if I just stop buying small things, I’ll magically be okay.”
That got his attention.
He turned off the stove and sat across from me with his own plate.
He didn’t correct me.
He didn’t lecture.
He waited.
So I kept going.
“I make fifty-five a year,” I said. “That’s not nothing. I’m not broke because I’m buying fries. I’m broke because everything costs too much. Rent is insane. Food is insane. I pay for health insurance I can barely use. I—”
I stopped myself.