3 beers under my arm. A single tablet left of a sheet of six in the back pocket of my tight, black jeans. A tiny baby syringe. What?
He chews on the leg of a chicken carcass, or lamb, or something, then throws it in the general direction of the ocean. He likes films, art; he uses the term pseudo-hippy. I sit in my silence, inside. He wants to reach in, he grabs at my hood, my hair, he puts his greasy face in mine.
Let me love your body, he says.
I had jumped on his bed, frustrated. Here because I wanted attention.
Now sitting in the car, I smell like an animal.