Like a crazy person, I think. I'm probably the only non-multi-millionaire on this street. I probably look like a hooker, I think. A call girl hired for the night, doing the walk of shame in this stupid too-short dress. Everyone who sees me is probably thinking the same thing: stupid whore. I'm flush, crying, as I call Kiley. I can't call Johnson now. Something in me stops me from taking that crucial step. I don't know why. We've been best friends for years. But somehow I can't let him see me like this. There's a darkness to Johnson, a possessive streak, I don't touch. He'd rush into Philip LaFleur's apartment and beat the shit out of him for having dared to touch me. For having taken advantage of me. But I'm not sure how I feel about what happened. Was I taken advantage of? Did I want to be taken advantage of? Was everything that felt so wrong also, in a sense that goes beyond flesh and into the deepest and most primordial parts of desire, right? My body had been awakened to all sorts of sensations, desires, needs, hungers, cravings I didn't know I had.
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