It’s late and the apartment is quiet. I’ve got a writing journal next to me on the bed, opened to a blank, wordless page. I pick up the phone and slide my thumb over the screen. What are you doing? Nothing—can’t sleep. Me either. Come see me. Now? On the steps. That’s so far away. You’re so lazy. Do you want me to carry you? Give me five minutes. I close the journal with a snap and kick off my quilt. It only takes me three minutes to get downstairs. * Tricia’s margarita sits half empty on the table in front of her. Josh is at the bar looking for a refill and I sip a soda and try not to puke when I get a whiff of the tequila. Motorhead is pretty packed for a summer week night. People get excited about dollar fishbowls, I guess.
