He surveys the mess, which is pure liquid. “things are never easy,” she retorts, doubling over on the sidewalk as she retches and gasps, one hand clutching the bumper for support. not in his car, but on it, washing the sleek black hood in stomach acid and sour vodka. “please.” he traces indecipherable patterns on a shot-glass rim. he evades it in a single movement, as seamless as an alibi. She flings a crumpled wad of tissue paper in his direction. “he loves you so much it hurts to see,” he tells her in the bar, as smoke and lights lace over fingernails and flesh in silver-tinted neon shards that pulsate to the throb of the bass line.
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