Asher casts his eyes to the ceiling. “Dude, you really gotta work on your communication skills.”
“Like you don’t?”
“Yeah, but I’m comfortable with my inability to look deep inside a woman, other than the obvious. You’re clearly in love with this one. What’s she have, a nacho-flavored vagina?”
I bare my teeth. “Don’t you fuckin’—”
“See?” Asher shows all his teeth with a grin. “Told ya.”
“Get lost.”
“Gladly. This soap opera ain’t my kinda show. Catch you later, H.”
“Uh-huh.”
Once he leaves, my head falls back into the airless pillows, and I curse at the ceiling.
I’m pretty sure, after a good few years of trying, I’ve sunk as low as I can go.
And it doesn’t feel as comfortably numb as I wish it would.
