In hope the air up high might prove more pure, some climbed eighty-seven stories. They shattered the…

Not this time. Swear to God. This time, every glorious, evil, caustic, cantankerous curse I’d ever longed to utter would spill from my lips in a venomous and malignant and withering froth. Every repressed urge. Every petty resentment.

By design, I date a drunk. He passes out by eleven. I wriggle from his dead-weight arm and dress in loose-fitting jeans slung low on my hips and a tourniquet-tight T-shirt that shows a strip of flesh above the belt.