Zechariah was riveted for all the wrong reasons. He laughed. Took another swig. Laughed again. Touched his tongue to a tooth as he considered his words carefully.

“Doctor. Have you ever had to …” he waggled his brows, then set his glass down as he considered how to say it without saying it.

He made a hole with his thumb and forefinger, fished around gracelessly in the faux-asshole, and then picked up a pen from the coffee table and simulated that whisking up into and then being pulled with great effort out of said faux-asshole.

“You know. For a gentleman with no sense and no company, but plenty of imagination.”