I was lying on my side, one leg draped over her hip, my face buried between the pillow and the tangled strands of her hair. Her mouth still tasted like cheap vodka, and her skin was warm, damp — like the air had stopped moving after the second round. Her breathing was slow as she scrolled silently through her phone.

I got up slowly, not bothering to be polite. Grabbed my crushed cigarette off the nightstand, lit it with a shaky hand, and walked over to the vanity mirror. I was in nothing but panties and a bra, hair stuck to my neck, skin streaked red from her touch.

I started applying mascara with the same precision someone might use to write a threat in an anonymous letter, the cigarette hanging from my lips. My eyes were tired. I might still have been a little high.

“Got a message from Roxy,” I said casually “She’s hitting up Pixel with some friends. Asked if I wanna go.”