Hayden asks from the couch, his doggie bed. “What?” “I said, are you okay?” “Oh, yeah. I’m fine. Why, do I seem weird?” “Because you don’t look well at all.” I close my notebook, clip my pen to the cover. It’s true, I am very unwell. “Can we talk?” I ask. “I think I need to talk.” “Of course,” he says, dog-earing the page and closing his book. “What is it?” He’s concerned. “Is it Pighead?” “No,” I say. Now that I’ve asked if we can talk, I don’t want to talk. “Maybe it’s just my Sunday night dread. I hate Sundays, I don’t want to go to work tomorrow.” Hayden waits for the truth. “I need a cigarette,” I say, getting out of bed and going over to the kitchen counter for a Marlboro Light. “I’ll have one too,”
