Cowboy Baby Daddy

“How is that good?” I ask.

“It’s good because you’re allowing yourself to feel something else. You’re becoming more in tune with the larger reserve of emotion that you’ve been pushing down so you could wallow in your depression. Movement is a good thing.”

“It’s so weird to hear you talk like this,” I tell her.

She laughs.

“I’ll tell you what,” she says. “Why don’t I pour another shot and you can take it from between my tits?”

“That’s much more familiar,” I chuckle.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe I do need to get angry. I’m just not used to being the one left wondering.

Yeah, I get the karmic bullshit in the situation.

I’ve been looking off into space, and I didn’t even notice that Wrigley has, in fact, poured another shot and she’s holding it between her breasts.

“You know you want to,” she says.

“Wrigley…”

“Stop being such a baby,” she says. “I’m not telling you to lick it out of my twat, although—“

“I think I’ll be okay,” I tell her.

“Oh, you’ve had enough for the night?” she asks. “Lost your tolerance for alcohol, have you?”

“No,” I tell her.

“Then, come on,” she says. “I’m kind of getting tired holding this thing in place. Maybe if I’d worn a bra, I could have—”

“Fine,” I laugh. “I’ll take the fucking shot.”

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I won’t read too much into it.”

I hesitate.

“Seriously,” she says. “I won’t. Now stick your face in there before I spill this shit.”

I laugh, but I’m thinking about what Leila would think of the scene.

You know what? She kind of gave up the right to care when she just left without even saying goodbye.

She hasn’t been answering my calls, and the only reason I know she’s all right is because she sent over her stupid fucking friend—who I hate, by the way—to tell me that she didn’t care enough to see me before she took off.

My mouth is around the shot glass a moment later.

“There you go,” Wrigley says, running her fingers through my hair like some weird oedipal hallucination. “Doesn’t that feel better?”

I pull the now empty shot glass out of my mouth and set it on the table.

“You know what?” I ask.

“What?”

“It does,” I tell her.

She smiles.