“Yo, why ain’t he movin’?
“Startin’ to freak me out.”
I shoo him with my hand.
“Aight, Tony. Show’s over.
“Beat it before Jersey wets himself.”
Tony tilts his head,
gives one last cold pigeon glare,
then takes flight, wings cutting the air.
Andrew's eyes go wide,
and he drags a hand down his face,
laughing under his breath.
“You just Dr. Dolittle’d a pigeon.”
His laugh lingers, low in his chest,
and he takes another long sip.
I stretch out on the blanket,
spine hitting the stone,
hair spilling around me.
“So lemme get this straight,” I draw it out. “You work four double shifts a week—bellhop by day, bartender by night. Get maybe four hours of sleep if you’re lucky, with only Sundays off?”
I drop my head to the side, facing him.
“What’re you tryin’ to do, die before thirty?”
He throws an arm over a bent knee.
“Ain’t got much of a choice.”
He’s stupid and beautiful, and a worn-down idiot, and all I can think is: He deserves more than working himself into a grave just to keep breathing.
“So what’s the dream, Drew?
“What future are you working towards?
“And don’t say carry bags or pour drinks.
“I’ll judge the hell outta you.”
He goes quiet, the question shaking his guard.
“Can’t think that far ahead most days.”
He grips the back of his neck,
