Her feet are starting to hurt so we pick a spot just off the main drag, this crumbled staircase in a deserted parking lot behind the Harvester, where we can sit and talk.
“You know something, Henry?” she says.
“What?” I say.
“You’re a piece of shit.”
“Oh.”
It’s near dark, and the sky looks like cotton candy. I watch as she gathers up a bunch of her hair. She twists a knot in the back, then slips a pencil through. She has a pretty face and a tight body on her. But she can be a real bitch sometimes.
“And don’t go blowing it out of proportion,” she says.
“Please,” I say.
The next thing I know I’m up and kicking over a scaffold that’s in the corner by the fire escape.
