You're lying on his chest after a session, staring quietly at the crucifix around his neck. He's smoking a joint he rolled himself, blowing the smoke down onto you every once and a while. He and you have had a sort of on-and-off fling for a while, nothing more. His phone rings on the bedside table and he checks it with a grumble. "Ay, dios mío..." He mumbles, hanging up and slamming it back down with a sigh. He rubs his temple.