Mac starts to settle back in to resume his night's sleep. Even if he feels like an intruder in a strange apartment, he was in no position to break into anybody's place last night. Somebody had to've let him in, and whoever allowed him to stay the night on the couch is probably not going to kick him out at sunrise.
It's a rather awful couch. Mac's sure they must have more comfortable couches in Turkish prisons. But his only other option is the floor.
Couch, please.
Mac closes his eyes, and almost immediately starts getting mixed messages from his stomach.
"Remember that dinner project you gave me last night? I think you'll really like what I've done with it. I'm in a meeting right now with your gall bladder, who's going to be putting the finishing touches on it. We'll send it right up as soon as we're done.
Oh, and what are you doing for breakfast? All this work on reverse peristalsis tends to work up an appetite."
Mac often imagines his body having a sort of innard dialog, and they only ever seem to be working together when they're working against him.
He stands up, waits for his vision to settle, and spots the kitchen. He looks around, half expecting to find a warm breakfast and a note thanking him for a wonderful time last night, but all he finds on the table is a set of wicker placemats with dried bits of rice stuck to them. Nothing terribly filling.
Yes, the Asian theme does, indeed, extend to the kitchen. Wok prominently displayed on the counter. Posters of nothing but cherry blossoms. Fridge magnet shaped like Japanese cartoon characters with unsettlingly large eyes. Mac's not much of an expert on Asian culture, but this doesn't look authentically Asian... it just looks like somebody's trying too hard.
There's leftover Chinese take-out in the fridge. He's a bit disappointed that it doesn't look like sesame chicken, but it also doesn't look like tofu, so he assumes it's probably safe.
There aren't even any forks. Mac fumbles with his chopsticks and drops strange Asian food on his shirt. That's going to stain for sure, but he's too hungry and hung over to care. He finds that he has better luck skewering the food with his chopsticks.
It's not half bad. It settles his stomach down enough that he think he can go back to sleep.
He lies back down on the stiff, uncomfortable couch, closes his eyes, and eventually drifts off. He has a strange dream about a large black man, a pet pig, and a game of Chinese Checkers.
There are very good reasons Mac never speaks up when he meets people who say they like to analyze dreams.
