“I hit a guy last night,” I said.
“Someone you know?”
“Someone Tony knew. His dealer. Fucking douche named Eric Waters. Said Tony didn’t know when to say when. So I decked him.”
“But it wasn’t an overdose.”
“No.”
“And you’re dealing with that?”
I shrugged, realized she couldn’t see me, and said, “Trying to.”
“How?”
“Drinking mostly. Some weed.”
“Coke?”
“No.”
“Sex?”
“No.”
Quiet. The quiet of three thousand miles and my dishonesty stretching like a spider’s web thread between us.
“Okay,” she said finally.
“Let me call you later?”
“Will you?”
“Probably not.”
“See you tomorrow,” she said and hung up.
I put the phone back on the cradle on the floor by my bed, rolled over into the unmade covers, and fell into a deep sleep almost immediately.
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