I move the session along quickly. It’s the only way to keep the blood in my brain and not in my cock. I have to busy my hands with the safe, familiar tremor of my tattoo gun.
Carey finishes with the mop and emerges from the back room.
“I’m clocking off now,” he says, giving me a salute so half-assed it’s basically a limp wave. He’s already got his jacket and shoes on with his skateboard in hand, and for a second, I get a flash of him standing there naked, all his piercings showing.
“Just get out,” I say with a jerk of my head, and try to make it sound as playful as I can.
“You sure I can’t stick around? I don’t really feel like riding home in this weather. It’s getting too hard.”
“Then walk.”
“Or I might go to the bar on Maple.”
“Okay,” I shrug, and keep my head down.
“That girl, Liv. From a few weeks back. She was telling me about The Black Cat. Apparently they have trivia on Saturday nights, and it’s not the worst.”
“So go then.”
“Will you come after?”
Without changing my posture, I move only my eyes to look at him. “We’ve been through this.”
“Is it impossible for you to be in a bar and not have a drink?”
“We’re gonna be here till at least nine. Not even you’re pathetic enough to hang out on your own in a bar for more than three hours.”
“You’d be surprised,” he mutters.
“Just go, Carey. It’s not gonna happen. I’ll see you on Tuesday.” My tone is final. It sounds harsh, but it needs to. The kid has already broken me and he doesn’t even realize.
Idon’t think I’ve ever been this cold in my entire life.
I know how objectively stupid that sounds considering there are entire countries much further north than I am right now. And even though I was born here, the weather isn’t why I feel tied to the place. Give me sun, give me steaming hot and sticky tropical days all year round. Windchill so arctic it feels like it's blowing off the asshole of the North Pole, can fuck right off.
The sidewalks are covered in slush, and every step I take sends a slosh of grey, wet snow up over my Chucks.
I hate Wednesdays.
And Fridays.
And Sundays and Mondays.
I hate that I can’t ride my skateboard in these conditions.
I hate that Eden’s apartment building doesn’t have a doorman so while I was at work yesterday there was nobody to leave my delivery with. And I hate even more that the post office didn’t notify me that the package was going to be held there for meto pick up until this morning, instead of yesterday when I could have easily picked it up.
I mutter curses into the scarf wrapped around my neck that’s not even mine. It’s my brother’s too, same as the jacket; oversized, plaid, and aggressively masculine. It’s not my style at all, but it’s been keeping me alive for the past three weeks. I’ve had it on so often it feels like a second home. It’s comforting, and big, and I can pull my hands inside the sleeves.
I've got my brown chords on again because they're the only long pants I have that don't have holes over the knees. Though they may as well be tissue paper at this point.
I should have caught the bus.
I need to stop being so stubborn.
Maybe the reason Eden and Tek are so damn grumpy all the time is because of this turd-hole weather?
Wait a minute.
