Brad drove his empty beer bottle into the tub of ice on the coffee table. He muted the TV as the basketball game went to commercial. “Fucking refs.” “What do you care?” I said. “You hate the Kings.” “Not when they’re playing the Mavs, dude.” I hadn’t heard from the guy since he drove away from the party on Friday, then just before the game he showed up at my place with a six-pack of Pale Ale. Sacramento was losing to Dallas in a crappy game perfect for my crappy mood. My resolution to put Nora Deven out of my mind wasn’t going well. I rode away from her house yesterday morning, but I never really left. I kept picturing her sitting at the end of her bed with her legs crossed, wearing those green piranha pajamas. I kept thinking about crawling over to her and burying my face in the rosemary and mint perfume of her hair, running my tongue over the skin on her neck. I wanted to slide those pajama bottoms off over her smooth hips and plunge inside her. I wanted to feel her swallow me whole.
