I rub the tough calluses on the tips of my fingers together. They haven’t healed, but I do it anyway, because otherwise I’d have to give Alan my full attention.
Two big seagulls swoop down on a French fry that floats in the sea. They wrestle with it, flapping their wings aggressively as the fry predictably splits in two. The birds fly away. I pick up another three fries and fling them into the wind. The bay wall I’m sitting on is rough, and I consider diving into the low tide.
Two mornings later, I wake up to my mom calling me upstairs. I live in the basement of our house, which is nothing like people think. I’d tell someone I live in a basement, but they don’t know I mean a dang Drake & Josh style, decked out air-conditioned basement. It’s spacious, I have privacy, and I have decorative control, which means I get the privilege to not decorate at all. Against my mom’s wishes, of course.
I stare at the fog on my front and passenger windows. I want so bad to roll them down and back up, but I know the fog would just collect again and I’d be more annoyed. Stupid condensation. Peering ahead, I see Smoky exit the alleyway in a gray hoodie and sagging jeans. By the time he reaches my car, I’m already getting the words out.