I gaped at him. “Oh, you know, you should go update your Match.comprofile with that info stat. The ladies will be lining up outside, because nothing screams romance like being held captive in a cage.”
“And he’s not here now,” Tink continued as I turned around. I realized he had a little stick looking thing in his hand. A fine thread dangling off the end of the stick, disappearing into the sink. “Not that I’m complaining. I needed a break from him.”
Popping the tab of the Coke, I took a drink. Tink had filled the sink up with water. I had no idea what he—
Tink cocked his arm back and moved the stick—no, it was a pole—forward. My eyes widened.
I shot forward, almost dropping the soda. “What the fuck? Tink! Are you fishing in my sink?”
He looked up. “Yeah,” he said, drawing the word out.
Sitting the Coke on the counter, I slowly approached the sink. “If there are fish in my sink, I swear to God, I’m flushing you down a toilet.”
Tink shot me a bored look. “As if I’d fit down a toilet.”
He sighed. “Relax. It’s not real fish.” Dropping onto his knees, he reached into the water and pulled out a small, plastic red fish. “I tried to order real ones from Amazon, but alas, they do not sell them.”
I fell back against the counter, breathing a sigh of relief. Thank God for the small things in life.
“So where is Renny Tin Tin?”
Then I fed.