Dan groans. It's a particular sound he's made around Bunny before, the knowing he can't just wriggle his way out of a question by being charming and answering the question he wants to hear instead of the question asked.

"I don't like bitching to you about every headache and upset stomach and tweaked back. I don't. I hate the idea of that being just something we talk about all the time, every ache and pain I got." It's not that he's worried Bunny would pity him; he doesn't care about pity. But he doesn't want to make demands on Bunny to console and support him more than Bunny already gives him unbidden, willingly, unreservedly, over the things Dan does feel comfortable asking for help over. "Besides, whatever's not because I'm almost forty is because I drink and smoke, and those facts ain't changing, so there ain't no point is me mentioning it."

He says that like the fact that he smokes and drinks is akin to the law of gravity or the fact that water is wet. It's unchangeable, almost eternal, like a fixture of nature.

"I don't like getting older." He hates it. "And it can't be changed, so I don't want to waste the time we got together complaining about it."