It was raining outside and cold; we were in the middle of a dark November on the Lake Plains of New York State. Inside the movie theater I was drunk on cheap beer, and you were holding me. “There, there,” you said, and you patted the back of my hand, leaving yours there just a moment too long: the blessed warmth of it, your skin cracked from the cold, wet weather and the hot, dry air indoors.
I tried not to cry. I bit my lip until it hurt. You smelled good, like the Opium perfume you used to wear — vanilla and musk and sweat. It was delicious. I wanted to touch you somehow with my lips, but you didn’t like me to do that; so instead I took your shoulders in my hands and shook you. You tilted your head back like a howling wolf and laughed. I loved your laugh and your long yellow teeth.
