We still groped for each other on the backstairs or in parked cars as the road around us grew glossy with ice and our breath softened the view through the glass already laced with frost, but more frequently I was finding myself sleepless, and he was running out of lullabies. But damn if there isn’t anything sexier than a slender boy with a handgun, a fast car, a bottle of pills.
What would you like? I’d like my money’s worth. Try explaining a life bundled with episodes of this—swallowing mud, swallowing glass, the smell of blood on the first four knuckles.
We pull our boots on with both hands but we can’t punch ourselves awake and all I can do is stand on the curb and say ‘Sorry about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine.’
I couldn’t get the boy to kill me, but I wore his jacket for the longest time.