Mark Zuckerberg

"What, and you think I did?" Eduardo raises an eyebrow, amused, still, and skeptical at once, shaking his head before he rests it in a hand, his elbow on the table. "Kind of missed the boat on Lewis Carrol, sorry. And I'm pretty sure you're the only person who could stand to run around in flip-flops all the time; they probably would have fallen off when she fell down the rabbit hole, and then she'd've been stuck barefoot." Stupid, stupid, he thinks, but Mark runs with it and so he will, too. It's a moment too late that he realizes that Mark's wardrobe probably isn't the safest of topics. My hoodie and my fuck you flip-flops, you pretentious douchebag, he remembers all too well saying, and those being the two things mentioned by Mark now, he has to wonder if it's deliberate, an offhand way of trying to make Eduardo feel guilty. Whether or not it is, it works; he winces, though he ignores it easily, playing it off as a sip of beer gone down the wrong pipe. Having this — the levity, the familiarity that they probably wouldn't be able to achieve otherwise — is too nice to comment on it. Besides, Mark is drunk, likely not accountable for everything he says, and Eduardo is beginning to question the detail with which Mark will remember this conversation tomorrow. (He'd have been quick to defer anyway, he knows. It's how they've always been. Mark insults, often with no real intent, and Eduardo shrugs it off because it doesn't matter.)

The waitress who comes to the table is tall, a pretty blonde, and Eduardo looks up at her as he asks for another beer for Mark, then quickly amends it to two. Being the far more sober of the pair, he figures it won't hurt, that he could probably use it. Almost an afterthought, before she can leave, he looks to Mark again. "You still want that burger, or are we just sticking to drinks after all?"