Andrew Leung and Ben Whishaw are in bed talking. Leung is on his back, and Whishaw is beside him, head propped in one hand, the other laid across Leung’s chest. Leung is talking. Whishaw is listening. Whishaw pulls a hair from Leung’s nipple, asks something. Leung responds. Whishaw looks distracted, appears to be thinking. He rubs his fingers back and forth, says something, then slips the hair in his mouth and eats it.
Perfect. Perfect. Perfect.