Got up at 4:30 this morning and wrote 2,000 words. Penitent man, Josh Millard. Not exactly fun stuff to write (chapters 36-38, Nyx and Stripe), which might be what was keeping me before. I don’t know. But I feel good about this morning’s work, and I’m still not actually behind schedule, so, well, by god, that’s something.

Been a while since I’ve been up at 4:30. It’s a dry, quiet hour.

“Wake up. Time for school.”

She rolled over, blinked her eyes slowly toward open. Stripe sat on a chair across from the bed, nothing on but boxers, smoking a morning bowl and watching her. She watched him back as he flicked the lighter and pulled on the pipe.

“No school today,” she said.

“It’s a fuckin’ weekday. Ain’t no holiday. Don’t fuck with me.”

“I’m not fucking with you. I got suspended. Today and tomorrow. Lemme sleep.” She rolled back over, threw an arm over her eyes.

“You tellin’ me what to do, darlin’? Geddup.”

She rolled back, cautious, eyeing him carefully. She played it gentle this time.

“Stripe, I’m worn out. I really don’t have to go school. Can I please sleep in?”

“Geddup. Now.”

She sat up, reached over the bed, grabbed a t-shirt, pulled it on. He just sat and smoked and watched her. She stepped out of bed, sunlight on her bare almost-olive skin, and rounded up the rest of an outfit from the cleaner looking stuff on the floor. Laundry. Gotta do some laundry.

“Heads up.” Nyx glanced over at him. He reached down beside his chair and grabbed something, threw it toward her. Fabric. Her duffel bag. She watched it land on the bed in front of her, looked back at him, confused.

“I think maybe you’d better pack your shit up, Nyx.”

“What?”

“I think you’ve been playin’ me. I think you’re bored of fuckin’ good old Stripe.”

She gave him a look, aiming for comforting, hoping she didn’t land too close to patronizing. He just stared at her, took another hit, set the pipe down on the bed’s headboard.

“I think you’ve been spreading it around a little. Lookin’ for some new action.”

“Stripe, I haven’t–”

“One cock just ain’t enough for you.”

“Where am I every goddam night, Stripe? How would I–”

He waved her off, looked out the window, back at her. He nodded at the duffel bag. “Pack up. I’m done with your shit. I want you out of here.”

Out of here. Pack up. Her heart went turbo in her chest. She thought, an open invite. She thought, I can just walk right out. He’s asking me to. Jesus fucking Christ, he’s actually telling me to. She clamped down, tried not to smile, put on some drama instead, bit her lip, made her chin tremble a little. Then she grabbed the bag and started stuffing clothes into it. “Fine. Fine, I’ll go.”

He sat and watched. Grabbed the pipe for another hit. She packed quickly; almost everything she owned lived on the floor on her side of the bed. It kept it out of Stripe’s way, which was the best general policy she had. She zipped the bag up and tossed it on the bed.

He was staring at her. A grin. Just a tiny dangerous trace of a grin. Her breath quickened, no longer supressing a smile, now just not smiling at all.

“I talked to my boy Chromo. He can put you up. Get you started.”

“What?”

“I got you a job. Place to stay.”

“I don’t know what–”

“Job you’ll be real good at. Lotsa practice.”

She got it, and her mouth clamped shut. His grin widened into a dark, dirty smirk.

“Aw, Nyx, don’t be scared. This way you can have all the fuckin’ cocks you want, no Stripe to hold you down and keep you loyal. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I might come see you now and then, old time’s sake.”

“I’m not a whore.”

“Darlin’, you’re nothin’ but.”

“I’M NOT A WHORE!” She bit back her rage, tried to keep herself in check. “Fuck your fucking pimp friends, Stripe. Fuck them and fuck you. You want me out of here, fine. I’m out. Catch you on the fucking flip side.” She grabbed the duffel and hefted it off the bed, made for the bedroom door. Stripe jumped up and blocked it with his body. The grin was gone, now just a scowl under bleary, angry eyes. She squeezed the handle of the duffel and cursed herself.

“You fuckin’ ungrateful little slut. You know what I’m doin’ for you? I’m helpin’ you out. I’m givin’ you something you might actually be good at, and you just spit in my face? Fuck my friends? Fuck you. You’re a worthless little whore. A whiny fuckin’ parasite little whore. You think I give a fuck about you? You think I ever did? You’re nothin’. You’re a fucking zero, darlin’. A lay. You see that?” He pointed at the wrinkled bed covers, the sheets splayed out across the mattress. She glanced at the bed, back at him.

“That’s what you are, darlin’. You’re a fuckin’ toy. Tits and holes. All you are is a stain on my fucking sheets, Nyx. A fuckin’ stain. You’re just so goddam dumb, so goddam fucking stupid to–”

“No.”

He dropped off, stared at her, taken back by the soft, flat affect of the interruption.

“I’m not stupid. I’m smarter than you, and that’s what bothers you so much. You run your shitty little businesses, your dope, your fake ids, whatever the hell else, and you pretend like you’ve got it made, but at the end of the day you’re just another sad sack of shit watching cable tv and getting high and suspecting just how goddam worthless you–”

“You better shut your fucking mouth, little girl.”

“You like ‘em little, don’t you, ‘darlin’. Sixteen’s probably getting long in the tooth, old lady to a fucking pedo like–”

The arm he was using to block the doorway came arcing suddenly through the air and caught her in the side of the face. She dropped the duffel and fell sideways onto the bed with a shocked cry. He stood over her, livid, eyes dancing madly, his hands balled into fists. She held her own hand to her face, cupping the place where he’d hit her between her right eye and ear, right across the cheekbone. She stared back at him with her own animal scowl across her face. He hissed.

“You don’t want to fuck around with me. That’s the last thing you wanna do. That’ll be the last fucking thing you ever gonna do. Mark my fuckin’ words. You got me?”

She stared, eyes slit, pouring out hate. He raised his fist and crouched toward her. “YOU LITTLE BITCH, YOU GOT ME?!”

She blinked. Nodded. Sobbed. Her face was hot and tight with pain.

“Get the fuck outta my house.”

Rorie dreamt of night, and of the coming of dawn. Of a flush of pink light. Of countless voices in song, singing one word, her name. A song of devotion. A song of love.

Tom dreamt of his mother, withering in a rocking chair, drinking her tea and reading the paper. “Faggots,” she said, and turned to him. “Faggots trying to get married, Thomas. You see how it is?” She waved the paper at him, but he couldn’t make out the words.

Nyx slept heavy and remembered no dreams, and woke sore.

Paying the rent, she told herself, over and over. Just paying the rent. Her mantra. Her zen. Her voice turned inward, as she lay naked and sweating beneath him, writhing and gasping and throwing in all the right gasps and squeals. Painting him a picture of himself. Satisfying the ego inside the cock. Little murmers. Little struggles. Oh, Stripe. Oh God yes, Stripe. Mmm. A one-woman act: Stripe could think he was fucking her, but she was all alone in her head, she told herself. She was just paying the rent.

It was a popular show. Sold out for months, five, six, seven shows a week, sometimes a matinee. And the audience always got into it. He was perfect, that way. Nyx’d been scared at first, and then she’d started learning the ropes, and that was her honeymoon, her happy little stretch of adventure and of thrilling, distracting moments of at least physical joy. But then the sparkle faded, and it was just the same thing ad nauseum. Just rent. What she’d seen as passion on Stripe’s face she reinterpreted as just ugly self-satisfied clenching. The word ‘lover’ was dropped in favor of ‘boyfriend’ and then just ‘boy.’ She pulled out of the act and into her head and did her best to string him along while staying out of it herself, and as long as she kept up the sex-kitten versions of “uh-huh” and “mm-hmm” he didn’t seem to notice at all. Just thrusting and grabbing and biting his tongue as he slid over the sweat-slick between them.

She thought about Tom. Tom at Aster’s. Tom asking questions, daring her to call him on his shit. Daring her to spill her guts. Lonely, sad Tom with the private life and the masochist’s job. Something in his eyes. Bitterness? Something that she felt like she recognized. That maybe he knew part of how she felt. Or vice versa. Her conversations played out fragments, and she recreated the details in her mind, rebuilt Aster’s as a television set and put cameras on the two of them. A boom mike overhead. The director standing back out of frame, in the barren soundstage where the rest of the bar should have been, where the street would be if it weren’t a set. Grips and gaffers lounging around, some gopher moving quickly with two cups of coffee in hand, trying not to spill. The extras chattering with each other between takes while Nyx and Tom smoke and talk shop, did you get that thing, that coffee commercial gig, no, they gave it to that prick Gordon, can you believe that, couldn’t emote his way out of a wet paper bag, well fuck ‘em, it’s shitty coffee anyway. They laugh, and then the director hears what he wants to hear from the AD and calls for quiet on the set. Cameras. Sounds. The clapboard marks the scene, take 1, aaaaaand: ACTION! Nyx glares at Tom and smokes, Tom frowns at Nyx and bites his lip. “Nyx,” he says, “We need to talk.” She blows a ring at his face, watches it curl through space. Camera B gets a closeup. After post, it’ll be one of those stunning visual gimmicks that will win the show an Emmy the same year it gets cancelled. She puts down her cigarette, looks him in the eye. “Tom,” she says, “We don’t need to do anything.” He pauses, sips his beer, looks hard back at her. “No, Nyx, we need to talk. Again. Apparently. Fuck, what’s my line?” Nyx laughs, and Tom laughs, and then the whole set is doubled over, tears sluicing out the corners of their eyes–

“What’s so fuckin’ funny?” Angry. Hurt. Still moving, still grinding. Like a machine.

“Nothin’. Just feels good, Stripe.”

“You think this is a joke?”

Fuck. “No, no baby, I just got overwhelmed a little.”

“Say it.” That look in his eye. Hungry. On edge. Bully eyes. He didn’t have to elaborate. She dug her hands into him and tried to distract him.

“Say it, darlin’.”

Darlin’. Fuck.

“Say it.” Grinding harder, faster. Excited. Angry still, burning holes in her, eyes as clear as she’s ever seen them. She closed her eyes and willed her ears closed, her mind closed. Sounds without meaning. Words without weight.

“Daddy.”

He moaned, pressed harder and faster into her. “Again. Say it again, you little slut.”

“Daddy. Oh, god, Daddy, yes.”

Paying the rent. Just paying the rent. Just paying the motherfucking rent.

Alternative title: Pride Comes Before the Fall.

Just two and a half days ago I was talking big and struttin’ out my wordcount on the novel. Two and a half days later, I’ve only written another 2,210 words. Not a great showing. I need to do some writing today. (And, in fact, of that 2,210 words, a fair chunk was written this morning, which tells you what yesterday and the day before were really like.)

But I can handle it. I can do it. I will attone for my braggartry by humbly cranking out some serious chapterage.

Tom poured himself another glass of wine and let the porch-swing oscillate slowly beneath him, his porch light casting dim monster shadows that swung with him in time. The night was muggy, clouds covering the stars and bouncing orange streetlamp light back down at the city. He played over his conversation with Nyx again, again, picking out the bits he wished he could have changed, the questions he hadn’t satisfied. The story about her mother. Her father. He shook his head, murmured into the quiet night of the neighborhood.

“Dammit, kid.”

He stood up and grabbed the wine bottle out of the planter box where it was resting among beleagured tulips. He headed inside and put his glass and the bottle on his coffee table next to the glass bowl in which a small yellow goldfish finned lethargically. He fed the fish.

“Eat up, Roscoe.”

The phone rang. He capped the fishfood and snagged the living room’s wireless handset off the end-table on which it sat. “Hello?”

“It’s me. I thought we were going out for a drink.”

“What? No, Rob, I told you I changed my mind.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I sent you an e-mail.”

“Didn’t.”

“I did. Check your spam filter, maybe. Anyway, sorry.” Tom dropped his butt on the couch, grabbed his wineglass, put his feet up.

“Another date?”

“Oh, Jesus. Not even close. I was at Aster’s again, though.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“Okay. Short version. Went to Aster’s with Manning yesterday, ran into Nyx Buckingham, whole evening went to crap in about five minutes, right?”

“Yeah. So?”

“So Nyx managed to get herself suspended today for calling her chemistry teacher a fag in class. Peggy chewed her out and then sent her in to me.”

“This is the girl you were boohoo-ing about the other day.”

“No, no, that’s another girl. I sent her to Sue Lysik, by the way.”

“Shit, how is Sue? Haven’t talked to her in a while.”

“She’s good. Business is healthy.”

“So this girl.”

“Nyx? Yeah. Apparently she really went off at–this is Henry Corbett who she was trash-talking, so you can–”

“God, that old prig–”

“–yeah. I think he’s probably kicked kids out of class for sneezing. So she’s suspended for a couple days. I tried to talk to her in my office, but no dice. Wall of attitude. Nothing sounds weaker than tough love that doesn’t stick. So she storms out, and I end up getting into it with Henry in the lounge. The man is a homophobe, Rob. You can see it in his eyes. I really wanted to hit him.”

“Or ask him out. Blow his little mind.”

Tom laughed, drank. “Anyway, got back to my office and just a little before school gets out I call her house. Nyx’s. Her dad answers, and he hasn’t seen her. Not today, not in a while.”

“Runaway?”

“I don’t think so exactly. I mean, I dunno. Sounds like their relationship is pretty fucked, but he wasn’t wondering if she was dead or in prison or anything, so I think they must see a little bit of each other. She says he’s a drunk, and honestly he sounded like it when he was on the phone. He just wanted to know how she was. Asked about her grades. You know how Mom always got around Grandma’s birthday?”

“Drunk?”

“Well, yeah, but her mood. All quiet and moody. Inward. Kinda–”

“–resigned.”

“Exactly. He sounded like that to me. You know her mom, she died when Nyx was I think twelve years old? Hit by a car. Just out of the blue.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. I think maybe all of this shit is just that. I mean, not ‘just’, not like it’s–”

“–not like it’s some trivial it’s-all-my-dead-mom’s-fault sort of deal. No, I hear you. Sounds like you’re right. How’d you find all this out, I thought she wouldn’t talk to–”

“Aster’s. I went down there tonight and there she was, half-drunk and smoking and looking like she’d been crying. We talked for a while, that’s how I found out about her dad and her mom and all that. And she pretty much pegged my ass to the wall, too. Gah. Rob, do you think I should tell people I’m gay?”

“What, like when you introduce yourself? That might not get you off on the right foot.”

“I mean like colleagues. Associates.”

“I’d advice against any speeches, if that’s what you mean. And otherwise, I mean, how is it going to come up?”

“I don’t know. I dunno. It comes up, y’know? Or it doesn’t come up because I dance around it, I mean. Christmas parties, asking about family, wife, that sort of thing. I always play it demure. I always–I’m a fucking coward, is the problem. I–”

“Oh come on. People have every right to personal privacy. You don’t have to march in a pride parade just because you like cock, Tom.”

“I know, but. Shit. I get sick of feeling like there’s some big secret. Like I have to watch myself. And nobody is telling me I have to, there’s no still small voice insisting that I have to hide it, it’s a sin, anything like that. I’m just. Fuck. I dunno. I’m afraid.”

“So just grow a pair, man. Put it out there. Next time someone asks how your lovelife is, tell them, oh, heck, it’s just awful, have you got any cute brothers?”

The brothers laughed together.

“You know, it’s not exactly smart of you to hang out with a minor at a bar. You should let the bartender know she’s faking her way in.”

“I don’t think that’d do any good.”

“It’d sure cover your ass a lot better than hanging out with her.”

“Yeah, but then what? I get her kicked out of that bar. She’s smart enough to guess it was me, I mean I threatened to call the cops on her the other day. So she stops going there and I’ve made a complete enemy of this girl, and then what? She goes to another bar. Do I call every goddam bar in the city and insist that they put up a wanted poster? Even if that would work I don’t think I’d accomplish anything except shutting myself out.”

“You’re really worried about her.”

“I’m really worried about her.”

(Once upon a time, there world was covered in a blanket of darkness. The people of the world went about every hour of their lives under the same unlit sky.)

“Emmy, I don’t want to hear–”

(Hush, now. There were no stars nor any moon, and the people could only see by generating their own light. And so they had many candlemakers, and makers of matchsticks, and torches and lamps. And in the center of every village there was a great bonfire, which was kept burning very brightly. And all of the houses in the village were built in rings around the fire, with the most honored of the citizens housed in the inner ring and the rest in the outer rings. And the fire was visible from all of the houses of the village.)

(And then one day as the people of the villages went about, a breeze began to stir, and blew out the candles of the people. They tried to light their candles again, but the wind blew out their matches, and the people standing alone with their snuffed candles were left in darkness. They looked around them and found torch-bearers, whose lights still burned in the breeze, their flames flapping about but still strong. And the people gathered around the torch-bearers.)

(But then the wind grew in gusts, and blew even the torches out, and left the villagers again in darkness where they had gathered. But someone said, look, let us go to the great fire in the center of the village. And so they went, each pocket of villagers stumbling toward the distant fire of the village center, and they arrived together and sat around the bonfire. And it burnt tall and bright despite the gusts of wind, and stewards of the fire fed it with fuel to keep it strong.)

(But then the wind grew to a great gale, and all the people of all the villages in the world watched in fear as the bonfires began to flicker and falter. And with a final great swoop of air, the bonfires went out. And the people despaired in the darkness and wailed and held each other for comfort. And so the world was for a time.)

(But then a curious thing happened. The people of the world blinked and rubbed their eyes and cried out in surprise, for a great flame appeared in the distance. The people of the villages stood and craned their necks at this distant fire, and they tried to approach it, but it was at the very edge of the world, resting on the horizon. And a great cry of joy and relief rang in all the villages of the world, and celebrations sprang up in all the villages, singing praise to this new fire that climbed up into the sky and burnt brighter than all the bonfires in all the villages ever had.)

(But then the day passed, and the fire wheeled through the sky and toward the far horizon, and the people of the world once again despaired at the dying of the light. And they gathered together again in the darkness and wept as the sky grew dark, and they cursed the light for leaving them. And so many hours passed, and the people of the villages of the world mourned their fate and hated the great fire for ever having teased them with its brief visit.)

(But then someone cried out! For on the first horizon, there appeared again the glimmering rosy-fingers of the great fire. And it was then that the people knew that the light would return. And they came to call the light the day and the darkness the night. And they would rise from their beds in the last hour of darkness to sit together and watch the rosy-fingers pull gently at the horizon, and this was the most beautiful moment of each day.)

(And they gave a fittingly beautiful name to the the dawn, the coming of the light. They called it Aurora.)

“That never really happened.”

(Hush. Sleep, dearest.)

“Does your Dad ever get violent when he drinks?”

Nyx shook her head.

“Get verbally abusive?”

“He yells plenty when he gets angry. I dunno, it’s pretty run-of-the-mill stuff. We fight pretty much whenever we see each other.”

“And that’s why you left? Fighting with him?”

“Yeah.”

Tom scratched his nose, leaned forward in his chair. “That doesn’t make any sense to me, Nyx. Kids yell at their parents all the goddam time and vice versa. So I have a hard time buying that you abandoned your home just for that.”

“It’s not a ‘home’, it’s just a shitty house with an old guy inside who drinks too much.”

“And yells some but doesn’t get nasty and doesn’t hit you, you said. Doesn’t sound like a lot of fun, but it’s a roof over your head and food and so on. But you just leave. It just doesn’t add up. What’s missing?”

“Look, believe whatever you want, Tom. I don’t really care. You got your fucking tell-all, you happy now?”

“Nyx, you’re probably the angriest high school girl I’ve ever met. I want to know why.”

She reached over her chair and grabbed her bag, shouldered it with her cigarette clamped between her lips. “Tough shit, darlin’.” She stood up and headed around the table and toward the door. Tom jumped up and followed her out. She stood on the sidewalk looking at down the street and smoking and ignoring him.

“Nyx.” She didn’t turn toward him, just blew smoke and watch a pair of brakelights flash in the distance.

“Nyx, look. I need to know if you’re okay. I don’t care what you think of me, I don’t care if you don’t want to tell me anything else ever again, I just need to know that you’ve got somewhere to go where you’re safe. That you’re not gonna get yourself in any deep shit. I don’t want you to get yourself hurt.”

“I’m fine, Tom. And it’s none of your business anyway. I’m sorry I even opened my mouth.”

“I don’t want to see you drinking here again.”

She turned toward him. Steely glare. “You don’t want a lot of things, don’t you? How about you just keep your nose in your own shit and leave me the fuck alone.” She paused, glanced up and down the street, back at him. “You walking?”

“Yeah.”

“Which way?”

Tom nodded to the north.

She flicked her cigarette into the street. “Good.” She turned on her heel and headed down the sidewalk to the south. Tom sighed and started after her, but she spun around, walking backwards, and pointed a finger at him. “Don’t follow me, McEllroy, or so help me God I will yell rape.”

He stopped in his tracks and looked hard at her, defeated. She spun back around and did a slow fade down the street.

Current count is 18,644 words on the novel. That’s an important number, because it’s more than I managed on any of the three failed attempts surrounding my nanowrimo-winning 2003 effort, Johnny Pseudonym and the Noms de Plume.

The implication being that there is some mystical elastic barrier in the region of fifteen to sixteen thousand words which grasps at a November novel-in-progress and pulls and pulls until the novel either falls gasping into the pits of failure or breaks through the membrane to surge mightily on toward the now-inevitable 50K goal.

I will be running with this implication.

**Cake is your go-to band for lexico-centric lyrical excerpts.

“Okay, Nyx, look. Why do you think I came down here?”

She gave him a disinterested look. A shrug.

“No, c’mon. I came all the way down here, and it’s not like you’re doing anything else at the moment, so be a sport.”

She looked around and then sat up with a sigh that suggested that, sure, she wasn’t doing anything else at the moment. “I think you feel guilty.”

Tom nodded. “Partly. About what?”

“This is stupid. You tell me.”

“I don’t think you like being told things. You’re a smart girl. You’re quick. Very perceptive. Good attention to detail.”

“Christ, I don’t need some afterschool special pep-talk–”

“You like to analyze people, to get under their skin. You’ve got a sharp tongue. Razor sharp when you want it to be. And that’s been more and more, lately. So c’mon. I’m not kidding. I’m asking for it in plain English. Tell me why I’m here.”

“Fine. You know what? You want to feel good about yourself. All that shit I said early, that’s true, but okay, you kind of know it too. You’re not stupid, McEllroy, and I know that. You’re gay but you hide it, and you’ve gotta be, what, forty?”

“Forty three.”

“So you’ve been hiding it for a long time. Which means either your in some fucked up generalize denial about the whole thing, which doesn’t make sense because you’re going out on dates and not just paying for sex from the look of things. Or you’re conflicted. Out but embarrassed about it, or about some people knowing about it. Your parents never knew, or if they did know they weren’t cool with it and so you never really felt accepted and that’s followed you around for like twenty-five years give or take and you still don’t know how to just be gay without looking over your shoulder, except maybe around your friends. And you don’t have very many friends.”

She sat back and cocked her eyebrow at him, and with a demure smirk lit herself a new cigarette. They looked at each other across the table, and Tom managed a weak grin.

“Ouch. That was pretty good. My parents did know, and no, they weren’t cool with it. Midwestern bible folk, though we moved to the Northwest when I was in high school, about your age, and that’s when I started to figure out I was queer. I hid it from them for a couple years and then came out and they just refused to acknowledge it. You couldn’t discuss it with them. After a few really explosive arguments I stopped trying.”

He shook his head, stared at the middle ground for a quiet moment. Nyx smoked and waited.

“I’ve never really felt bad about wanting men. When I was young I spent a lot of time chasing other boys around. Got laid plenty. What I mean is I didn’t have any hangups about my sexuality, per se. I just…outside of that specific culture, outside of the scene, I didn’t feel like I ought to let on. I worried a lot about people’s disapproval.”

“You’re saying that all like it’s past tense, Tom.”

He gave her a look: gimme a break, will ya?

“Hey, you started this, man.”

“Okay. Yes. I worry a lot about people’s disapproval. And not because I, shit, I mean I do care, obviously, but I don’t feel like I…and you’re right, Nyx. I don’t have a lot of friends. I hang out with my brother Rob, I go out for drinks now and then with a couple of the faculty, I see an old friend from college now and then, and that’s it. I keep my time pretty much to myself. Small house, quiet neighbors. I’m a hermit.”

“Sounds nice.” A distracted look, smoking and thinking about something.

“But you don’t think I came down here because I’m a conflicted homo, do you.”

Nyx laughed, coughed, grabbed their empty pint glass and spit into it. Tom made a face; she shrugged and set the glass on the floor under the table.

“Smoking’ll kill you.”

“I don’t smoke that much. Just gotta cold. And no, I don’t think you were driven to stalk me by gay guilt.”

“So why, then. Go for the jugular here. Cut me right open if you want to.”

“Look, I dunno. Maybe you want to make sure I’m not gonna out you to the administration.”

“I’m not worried about that.”

“You should be. Vindictive little bitch like me, I could embarrass the hell out of you, maybe lose you your job.”

“You could.”

“Or blackmail you. Compromise you ethically. Tell people you took me to a bar, liqoured me up.”

Tom shrugged. “You gonna do that?”

Nyx rolled her eyes. “What’s in it for me? Not worth the effort. I mean, you get paid shit, it’s not like I could extort much.”

Tom barked laughter. Nyx volleyed a caution grin.

“I get paid shit and that’s before taxes. So no, I’m not here to beg for secrecy. I don’t think I’ve pissed you off enough to have to worry about it.”

“Look, Tom, the suspense is just killing me.”

“You know, you just don’t want to say it.”

“Say what.”

“That I obviously actually give a shit about you. About your life–”

The eyes rolled again, far and wide, an elaborate kiss-off.

“You don’t buy it.”

She held up a hand and shook her head angrily at him. “Tom, there’s nothing to buy. You don’t know anything about my life.”

“So tell me.”

“I’m way too sober for this.”

“You said your dad’s drunk.”

“Fuck you, Tom.”

“That’s not what I meant. I’m sorry. How long has he been a drinker?”

“Long as I can remember.”

“What about your mom? Is she around at all?”

Nyx got quiet, stared long at the tip of her cigarette. Tom started to speak, I’m sor–, but Nyx shook her head.

“She died when I was twelve. Got hit by a car. Some senile little blue-hair driving a fucking Continental. Didn’t kill her right away, but did so much damage that she died two days later in the hospital. She was unconscious the whole time.”

“Christ. I’m. Nyx, I’m sorry.”

“I stayed with her. They tried to make me leave but I stayed in the lobby and I wouldn’t let Dad take me home and they just sort of gave up and let me stay there. I slept in a chair and held her hand and just prayed to God that she’d get better. I was holding her hand when she flatlined, and then the staff pulled me out and wouldn’t let me back in until she was gone.”

Nyx’s voice had grown softer with the telling, the edge slipping out of it, as she stared blankly at the cigarette burning down to ash between her knuckles. Tom sat heavy in his chair, mouth dry. The sound of the bar patronage poured back into his consciousness, a shrill mixture of babble and jukebox that left him suddenly uncomfortable. Nyx put the cigarette out of its misery with a few abrupt stabs and went about lighting another.

“That’s basically when Dad really started drinking. His sister came to stay with us for a little while right afterward and he just disappeared into his room or the garage and didn’t come out except to piss or eat something. Called out of work and just drank. After a couple weeks he came out of it, poured out all his booze, started acting like a human again. And he went back to work, and his sister went back to I think Spokane. But he never really stopped except for those few days. Drunk all the time, just trying to hide it. And he got worse and worse at hiding it, started going from job to job, stretches of unemployment. He’d just sit around the house and flip through magazines and do nothing. Just drink and cry. All day long. Just fucking gave up.”

Nyx picked the glass up off the floor, hocked and spat.