Summer Is Ready When You Are

Summer Is Ready When You Are

I slept over this girl’s house last night. I don’t know her well, but we work together. She’s friendly enough.

She made such a big fucking deal about how much she loves to party, so I got us some blow. We hit a few bars in her neighborhood, which was fun. I generally like to stay in one place, though. I concentrate better. She seemed to know a lot of people. But Bayonne is loud and crowded, especially on Fridays in the summer. And sometimes, cocaine makes me feel lonely.

In the bathroom, she wouldn’t shut up about all these guys who apparently are just dying to sleep with her. Yeah, okay.

She got too drunk way too quick, if you ask me. Which, c’mon, that shouldn’t even happen when you have coke. Falling out of her shoes. She spilled a Bay Breeze down the front of her shirt. They made us leave the last place we were at. She started something with the dude working the door, running her mouth like an asshole.

We walked around for nearly an hour before she sobered up enough to remember where the fuck she lived.

“It’s this way,” she kept saying.┬áThen she’d stop to throw up between every four or five cars. I swear, I would have left her there, only I don’t know my way around New Jersey. And she hadn’t paid me back yet for the drugs I got us that I ended up snorting all by myself anyway, hunched over on her couch next to a pile of rank laundry.

I should have saved what was left, since the whole night kinda sucked. But maybe you know how that goes.

I listened to her crying into the phone, pleading with some idiot she used to go out with.

“Just come over,” she begged. “I’m horny.”


I waited until she got into the shower this morning before I went through her wallet. Relax, I didn’t take everything. Three twenties and a five should cover my hardship. Let her think she lost it in our travels. Serves her right for getting so sloppy.

“You got that money you owe me?” I ask when she’s done drying her hair.

She empties the contents of her purse onto the bed. “Shit,” she says.

“What’s the matter?” Like I don’t know.

She checks the pockets of her coat. “Nothing. Can we stop by the bank when I drop you at the train?”

“Sure. That’ll be great.”

* Artwork: Q Train by Nigel Van Wieck

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