The night continues to improve. Maybe.
There have been no more blow job stories. From Amy or anyone else.
A crowded, noisy den as people wander in and out and I find myself wanting to up the ante knowing it won’t be long until I have to leave. Or at least go outside. I won’t have to deal with whatever mess I make.
Lance’s real name is Wayne. Why am I so bad with names?
“I ain’t going back,” as the sign for cocaine is made.
“She’s got a man so I can’t even do her.”
“I’ve never enjoyed my time here.”
“But ape should never kill ape?”
I catch bits of conversations; I wonder if they would make more sense in context. I don’t think they would.
People have taken over the back porch to smoke weed. It’s 2 A.M. Digable Planets is playing in distantly in the den. I’m sitting in a bedroom — interesting what people bring on a week’s vacation with them. This person has 2 books sitting out — The Faerie Queen and On the Road.
I wish I knew whose room this was. They might be someone I would like to talk to. Or at least meet.
Amy walks in, gazing around.
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