Page 105 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

and they’re drifting between mine.

“This the wine talkin’?”

His forehead almost touches mine.

“Or you sayin’ it ‘cause you’re scared?”

I reach for the wine bottle sitting on the ledge and drain the rest. “Trust me.” I set the empty bottle behind him. “You’d know if I was drunk.”

(I'm drunk.)

(Drunk and scared.)

My gaze falls to the chain lying on his collarbone. A souvenir from a woman who fucked him up and made him believe his worth lives in his hands and mouth, not his chest.

That he’s a no one

unless he’s bleeding for somebody else.

And the chain, it keeps laughing at me, the witness to all the times they passed him around like a goddamn lighter at a party.

And he let them⁠—

out of fuel,

still being struck,

still used,

still empty.

And he’s still wearing it.

I light up my fourth or fifth cigarette

and lean back against the edge,

ankles floating up, weightless.

My eyes close as I pull in a drag,

the nicotine burning in my lungs.

Then my voice leaves,

husky, thick, and deadly serious.

“I want garlic knots. Garlicky. Buttery. Burn-your-fingers hot. Piled in that greasy foil bag. With the see-through napkins that don’t work.”

Andrew groans,

unlit cig hanging from his lips.

“Shit...” He lights up his next after I pass him the lighter, and blows out a cloud. “I’d commit a felony for a bacon egg n’ cheese burrito right now.” He tips his head back on the ledge next to mine, eyes to the sky. “Too much hot sauce so it drips down your wrist while you eat it in the car like a fuckin’ animal.”

I turn my head to face him.

“How ‘bout a Chicago dog?