Caine sat near the middle of the bus with his headphones around his neck and his sunglasses on, his body settled low in the seat. The diamond pendant on the new necklace caught the overhead light, the stones throwing small cuts of light across the seatback in front of him and across the back of his hand where it rested on his thigh.
Through the tinted windows the crowd was already thick along the barricades outside Spartan Stadium, green and white packed against the metal rails, signs held up over heads, middle fingers raised in clusters, mouths moving with words the glass, the engine and the air conditioning swallowed before they reached the aisle.
The bus swung wide into the entrance and slowed against the curb, the hydraulics dropping the chassis with a hiss. The engine idled against the concrete, the vibration settling into the armrests and the metal rails above the windows. Through the glass on Caine’s side a man in a Spartans hat had both hands cupped around his mouth, his lips already working, the cords in his neck pulling tight with each syllable.
The coaches stood first, pulling lanyards and clipboards from the overhead racks, filing down the aisle in khakis and polos with their credentials swinging against their chests. Then the linemen started moving, shoulders filling the aisle as they pulled bags down and slung them over their arms, the line shuffling forward, each one turning sideways to clear the armrests. The bus rocked on its suspension as the weight moved forward, the frame settling lower with each body that stepped down onto the concrete.
The door open and the noise hit the bus in a single wall. Everything the glass had been holding came through at once, the full weight of the crowd pressing in. The temperature shifted with it, the manufactured cold giving way to open air that carried and the body heat of several thousand people packed tight against a barricade under the sun.
“This ain’t fucking California, bitch!”
Someone closer to the barricade cupped his hands and screamed it differently. “Overrated sunnabitches!”
The people around him picked it up, the word stretching into a chant that moved down the line, each voice landing half a beat behind the one before it until the syllables rolled back over themselves and started again.
Caine stood and rolled his neck once, moving toward the front of the bus. The aisle had cleared out ahead of him, the last of the guys in front of him stepping down into the noise, their bags hanging from their shoulders as they moved into the walkway between the barricades.
He stepped off the bus and the noise found another gear. The step rang under his shoe and then he was on concrete, the walkway stretching ahead of him between the two lines of barricades toward the tunnel entrance fifty yards out. Bodies lined both sides, pressed three and four deep against the rails, green jerseys and white t-shirts and painted faces that moved as he passed.
A woman in a Spartans jersey cupped her hands around her mouth ten feet from the barricade. “You ain’t shit, ten!”
A group of students behind her bounced against the metal railing, their weight rocking the posts in their anchors, beer on their breath, one of them holding a poster-board sign above his head with GUERRA’S A BITCH written across it in green marker.
Caine walked, hands hung at his sides, the fingers open. The pendant sat against his chest, the diamonds flat and cold against his shirt.
The crowd pressed against them on both sides, faces close enough to see the spit gathering at the corners of their mouths, hands gripping the rails, everything aimed at him and the teammates that stretched the distance between the bus and the concrete mouth of the tunnel.
Hands reached over the railing between Michigan state troopers, arms stretched past the metal, bodies pressed so close together the rails bowed between the posts. The concrete of the tunnel entrance rose ahead of him, the shadow under the overhang darker than the walkway behind it, the last stretch of barricade on either side packed tighter than the rest.
A man near the tunnel entrance leaned so far over the rail he was almost tipping over it it, the veins in his neck standing, his whole body pitched forward against the metal like the railing was the only thing keeping him off the walkway. “You’re getting fucking exposed tonight, bitch! We’re sending you back to fucking Statesboro!”
Caine looked at him as he passed.
He smirked.
The man’s face went redder.
Caine stepped into the tunnel and the noise dropped to a hum behind him.
~~~
Mireya walked on the outside near the curb with her arm looped through Sena’s, her bag hanging from the opposite shoulder, the strap cutting a line across the front of her cropped jacket.
Her stride led their pace, Sena matching it a half step behind, their linked arms pulling and giving with each step. Sena had her hands tucked into her sleeves so only her fingertips showed, the cuffs bunched in her palms, her shoulders drawn in against the air.
Mireya bumped her hip against Sena’s, the contact pushing Sena half a step sideways before their stride realigned, their linked arms pulling taut and then settling back. “You glad you came?”
Sena nodded, her eyes moving across the storefronts as they passed, windows catching the two of them arm-in-arm for a second before the angle shifted and gave back the displays behind the glass. “Yeah. I needed this. But you still should’ve asked me.”
They walked for a beat without talking, their steps falling into the same rhythm on the sidewalk, Mireya’s arm warm through the loop of Sena’s. Mireya’s chin stayed up, her eyes moving from the storefronts to the street and backd.
Sena looked at Mireya, her eyes moving down Mireya’s body and back up, starting at the cropped jacket and the fitted top underneath it, down to the jeans and how they held at her waist, to the shoes and back up to her face. “I wish I had half your confidence.”
Mireya’s eyebrow came up. “What are you talking about?”
Sena gestured at her with her free hand, a loose wave that took in all of Mireya from her shoulders to her waist. “Look at you. You just had a baby and your body looks like that. You’re always dressing like you want everyone to look at you. Like you’re okay with it. I could never.”
Mireya shrugged, her arm tightening in Sena’s before her hand slipped down to thread their fingers together. “You’re hot. You can do it, too, baby. It’s just clothes.”
Sena shook her head. “It’s more than clothes.”
Mireya’s mouth pulled to one side. “I don’t know. I seem to remember buying you some shit that you just stuck in the back of your closet and ain’t never wear. It might change things if you’d show a little puss when you bent over.”
Sena pressed her lips together, her chin dropping a fraction. Her sleeve-covered fingers tightened once around Mireya’s. “That’s a crazy thing to suggest your girlfriend do.”
“I like looking. I want you doing that for me. I don’t care if someone else sees because I know who you’re for.” Mireya’s head turned toward her, her eyes leveling on Sena’s profile. “You gotta stop hiding yourself. I keep telling you. Society gonna judge you anyway. For being gay, for being a woman, for not being white. Fuck it. Get your fucking titties out.”
Sena looked away, her jaw working once. They walked half a block without speaking. Mireya pulled her closer, leaning into her until her mouth was near Sena’s ear, close enough that her breath moved the hair at Sena’s temple.
Her voice came low, the words pressed close together. “Let me redo your wardrobe. The whole thing all the way down to your panties. Not just two dresses you’re gonna leave hanging.”
Sena kept her eyes ahead, her steps steady under the weight of Mireya leaning against her side. “Absolutely not. My mom would murder me if I showed up dressed like you.”
Mireya’s mouth moved closer to her ear, the side of her face brushing Sena’s hair. “Yeah, but think about how wet you’ll be knowing what I’m going to do when I get you out of whatever I dress you in.”
Sena’s step hitched for a fraction of a beat before she caught it. Her eyes went to the sidewalk ahead of them and her pace came back even.
Mireya straightened up but kept her arm looped through Sena’s, their hands linked, her weight leaning into her as they walked. She let a few paces pass.
“I’m serious, though. You’d look so fucking hot in something that showed your body. Something short, something tight, something with a little cheek out.”
Sena laughed, her head shaking, her shoulder bumping against Mireya’s. “You’ve lost your fucking mind.”
Mireya leaned her weight against Sena’s arm, her chin tilting up. “I’m just going to buy the shit and then you’ll feel bad and have to wear it.”
“Didn’t we just talk about you asking first?”
Mireya smiled, her eyes on Sena, steady. She pulled Sena tighter against her side, warmth passing between their bodies, and they kept walking down the block.
~~~
Ramon pulled to the curb behind a Charger sitting on aftermarket rims, the chrome catching the sun in bright slashes across the fender and the lip of each wheel.
Tyree pulled the pistol from his waistband and checked the clip, thumbing the top round once to feel the spring, then slid it back in and tugged his shirt down over the grip. He looked at the house through the windshield.
Ramon looked at him. “We’re going to talk, nigga. We don’t know if these niggas got anything to do with it.”
Tyree sucked his teeth but opened the door and got out.
They walked up the driveway past the Charger, their shoes grinding on the loose gravel where the concrete had broken apart. The side gate hung cracked open, the latch not catching. Ramon pushed it with two fingers and it swung in on its hinges, a squeaking noise cutting through the air.
Two guys sat in lawn chairs in the backyard, a folding table between them with a bottle and two cups on it, the grass worn thin under the chairs where feet had scuffed it bare. Willie saw them first and got to his feet, his hand coming to his waist before his body had finished straightening. Nick stayed in his chair but his weight shifted forward, his feet planting flat on the grass, his body loaded over his knees.
Ramon held his hands out from his sides. “Give us five minutes, nigga. We just trying to chop it up real quick.”
Willie looked at Nick as Nick’s eyes moved between Ramon and Tyree, then he tipped his chin toward the empty patch of grass near the fence.
Ramon and Tyree came through the gate and stopped a few feet from the table. Tyree posted a half step behind Ramon and to his left, his eyes moving between Willie and Nick and the back door of the house where a screen door sat behind the glass.
Ramon let his hands come back to his sides. “Somebody took a shot at my brudda a few days ago. We trying to figure out who the fuck think they can take shots at 39.”
Willie’s eyebrow came up. “And you came over here.”
“Because it seem like everytime I look, y’all niggas coming up. Two of my lil’ niggas got killed on Freret and they said that was y’all work.”
Nick shifted in his chair, his jaw setting. He brought one hand up to the armrest of the lawn chair, his fingers wrapping over the end of it. “We squashed that shit last year. Your people and our people sat down and handled it. Ain’t nobody over here trying to restart nothing.”
Willie nodded, his hand dropping from his waist to his side. “We out here trying to make some paper, brudda. That’s it. We ain’t got the time or the niggas to be going to war with 39.”
Ramon nodded, his thumbs hooking into his front pockets. “So who you think it is? Which one of y’all little ass cliques trying to come up?”
Willie and Nick looked at each other. Nick picked up his cup and took a sip, his eyes staying on Willie over the rim, then set it back on the table. He leaned back in the chair.
“Might be them Byrd niggas. They been talking a lot lately. Running they mouth about expanding, about who soft, who they can push on.”
Willie crossed his arms over his chest and nodded toward the street beyond the fence. “They got some young niggas over there that ain’t got no sense. Real hardheads out the Sixth Ward. IG niggas that be fucking on these juvies behind they work.”
Tyree stepped forward. “So it’s Byrd.”
Ramon put his hand on Tyree’s chest without looking at him, fingers spread, the pressure enough to stop the step. “He said might be, nigga. Chill”
Tyree looked at the hand on his chest. His eyes came up to Ramon’s face. “If it ain’t 110 and it ain’t Dooney, who the fuck else would it be? FnD? Young Melf? Dumaine?”
Nick held both hands up. “I’m telling you what I’m hearing on the street, nigga. I ain’t no fucking detective.”
Ramon nodded once. “Appreciate y’all for that. Y’all keep that peace so I ain’t gotta come back out here and have y’all mama crying over y’all dead bodies.”
He tipped his chin toward the gate and turned, his stride carrying the same pace it had coming through. Tyree held on Willie and Nick for a beatbefore he turned and followed Ramon through the gate.
They walked back down the driveway, to the car at the curb.
“We need to go find some Byrd niggas to walk down,” Tyree said.
Ramon opened the driver’s door and leaned on the frame, his forearms crossed over the top of it, his chin resting on his wrist. He looked at Tyree across the roof. “We ain’t doing shit until we know for sure. I ain’t gonna be the nigga that gotta go to war because you got an itchy trigger finger. You ain’t cry in front that bitch, huh?”
Tyree stopped at the passenger door, his hand on the handle. “Them niggas shot at me. Fuck you expect me to do?”
“Calm the fuck down like it ain’t the first time you been shot at. Then we’ll handle the shit.”
Ramon dropped into the seat and pulled his door shut. Tyree stood on the passenger side for a beat, his jaw working. He got in and slammed the door.
~~~
“Alert! Alert!”
Caine shouted into the din of more than 75,000 Spartan fans screaming at the top of their lungs, the din seeming to punch back against his words as he held his mouthpiece between his fingers.
He tapped the top of his helmet, looking to his left then repeating the motion to his right, his hands curling into claws before he stepped up to the line, cupping his hands around his mouth.
“Fire! Fire! Fire! Fire! Mike Right! Mike Right!”
He stepped back into his spot, glancing at Zay for a moment. The running back nodded, stood up out of his stance then reset his feet.
Caine put his mouthpiece back in his mouth. “THREE! THREE!”
He clapped his hands once, his shoulders moving forward with it. He waited a beat then clapped his hands again. Willi snapped the ball to him and he dropped back. One, two, three.
Xavier ran across his face, multiple steps on the trailing corner. Caine put it in front of him, giving the senior space to run under before he turned up field, picking up the first down.
Caine ran forward to where Xavier was brought down, pointing at the cornerback. “Ain’t no fucking white boy covering my dog! It’s gonna be all night bitch!”
Xavier popped up and dapped Caine up, their helmets clashing together in a headbutt.
…
“Guerra drops back and fires it to Joey Olsen and that’s going to be six for the Trojans on a drive that was nearly perfect for USC.”
“Coming into this game, there was a lot of talk about seeing this kid play in front of a hostile environment like the ones in the Big 10, but if that drive is anything to go by then it doesn’t seem to be shaking him at all.”
“It’s still early, though. We’ll have to see if it wears on him if the Spartans can keep up with one of the best offenses in the country so far this season.”
…
Caine caught the snap from Willi, tucking the ball under his left arm as he turned around with his right hand out toward Zay. Zay sold the fake, arms closing around Caine’s empty hand as he plunged forward toward the line of scrimmage.
Coming out of the fake, Caine rolled out to his right and saw flashes of green right in his face. He rose up, planting a foot and throwing it in Dean’s direction just as a defensive lineman smashed into his chest.
He heard a cheer as he fell to the turf, the air being forced out of his lungs, followed by a groan.
Getting out from under the lineman, Caine got to his feet to see the referees signaling first down as Dean limped off the field with the ball in his hand.
Caine nodded to the nearest Michigan State defender, clapping his hands, the skin of his right hand cracking against the leather covering his left.
“Y’all not shit. Show me something, lil’ bitch.”
…
“Wilbon plunges into the endzone and the Trojans are going up 13-0!”
…
“Guerra throws a bomb down the field and it’s caught by Hopper at the Spartans 11!”
“I think we can put it to bed now. Caine Guerra is the real deal. He only threw one incompletion in the first quarter and hasn’t thrown one yet—”
“Commentator’s curse as Guerra fails to link up with Derron Breeze on that one.”
“Well, he’s only thrown two incompletions in one of the loudest stadiums in the Big 10. Everyone’s been drinking all day. Things are raucous in here and he’s playing pitch and catch with his receivers as if that’s Eastern Michigan on the other side of the field!”
…
“Two! Two!”
Caine clapped. Willi snapped it to him. The safeties split apart, covering the corners of the endzone, leaving the middle of the field wide open.
The linebackers stayed at their depth as he took two steps back, the nickel coming on a blitz.
He kept calm as he saw Cam running into the space the safeties vacated and the linebackers didn’t drop into. He drew his arm back and threw it over one of the linebackers, aiming to drop the ball right into the R of the “Spartans” in the endzone.
Cam stretched out, making the catch, taking a few steps them spinning the ball to the turf and pointing into the Michigan State crowd as the offense ran over to him to celebrate.
…
“Henderson makes a man miss and he’s at the 40, the 30, the 20, just the punter left to beat! Jukes him out his shoes! The 10, the 5, TOUCHDOWN TROJANS! The rout is on. The Trojans are going to come out on top of the Spartans this time!”
“Legendary pull there, but this is not the 2027 USC Trojans. This is a team that scores in bunches and has a defense that can shut their opponents down. Are we seeing the revival of a dormant juggernaut here tonight in East Lansing?!”
…
“Guerra flips it out to Wilbon and he’s going to take it in for the TOUCHDOWN! He may have fumbled on that last drive, but he restored the four-score lead with under two minutes remaining in the half!”
“Can I just point out he hasn’t thrown an incompletion in eight minutes?”
“Is there a rule against that like a no-hitter?”
“If there isn’t, there should be.”
…
Caine settled into his stance, the crowd noise having died down to the point he could clearly shout adjustments to his offense.
He scanned the defense and shook his head, seeing the safeties in that wide split again. He held his hands out.
“Two! Two! Go, go, HIT!”
He took two steps back and stopped, letting the pocket develop around him, only four linemen rushing him. His eyes dropped to the space to his left, a brief thought of taking it in himself.
He shook his head and looked to his right, watching Derron streaking across the field on a slant. Bringing his arm back, he rifled it down the middle of the field, aiming for the back of the endzone.
Derron ran onto it, reeling it in before the cornerback tackled him from behind. Derron rolled over, holding the ball up as he lay on his back.
Caine ran to the endzone, lifting Derron up onto his feet by his shoulder pads. Caine dapped Derron up as Cam, Xavier and Dean joined them as the five of them dancing, the Michigan State players’ heads hung behind them.
…
“And that’s all she wrote from East Lansing. Your final score, USC 45, Michigan State 21. Caine Guerra is your player of the game, going 25-of-27 for 291 yards and 4 touchdowns with another 55 on the ground.”
“Scott, he went almost three full quarters without throwing an incompletion.”
“I know. Outside of those two fumbles, it’s about as perfect of a game as we’ve seen from a quarterback.”
“This kid was one of the Heisman favorites coming into the season, but fell down the rankings with other schools playing cupcakes and running the numbers up. Did we just see him put himself back in the conversation?”
“Only time will tell.”
~~~
Autumn leaned toward the mirror with a liner pencil in her hand, one eye done and the other half-closed under the tip, her free hand pulling the skin taut at her temple. Her breath fogged a small circle near the bottom of the glass with each exhale.
Jade sat on the edge of the tub behind her with one heel on and the other in her lap, her fingers working the buckle on the ankle strap, the metal prong refusing the hole she wanted. Brooke leaned in the doorway with her hip against the frame, scrolling her phone with her thumb moving in long pulls, her free arm crossed over her stomach.
Simone appeared in the hallway behind Brooke. She was dressed and ready, her edges laid clean against her hairline, a clutch tucked under her arm, small gold earrings catching the hallway light when she turned her head. She tapped Brooke on the hip with two fingers and Brooke shifted out of the doorway without looking up from her phone, stepping to the side and finding the wall with her shoulder. Simone took the doorframe, her body filling the space Brooke had left, her shoulder settling against the wood. She crossed one ankle over the other and watched Autumn in the mirror, her eyes tracking the pencil as it moved.
Autumn saw her in the glass, but she kept working the liner, her hand steady, the pencil moving in the short precise strokes that built the wing from the outer corner of her eye toward her brow, each one laid against the last.
“Are we good?”
Autumn finished the wing, pulled back, and checked it in the mirror with her chin tilting left and then right. She blinked twice, the liner settling against her skin. She set the pencil on the counter with the cap still off, her fingers letting it roll until it stopped against a bottle of setting spray. She looked at Simone’s reflection in the glass.
“Bitch, I’m not mad at you.”
Simone’s chin came up, her arms crossing loosely over her chest, the clutch pinned between her elbow and her ribs. “I ain’t mad at you either. I just don’t want us beefed out over a nigga. That’s not what we do.”
Autumn turned from the mirror and faced her, her lower back pressing against the edge of the counter, her hands coming to rest on the countertop on either side of her hips.
“I was defending my man and my relationship. You came at me sideways and I responded. That’s it. We had a little fight. We moved on. That’s what sisters do.”
Simone nodded, her chin dipping once. “Fair.”
Jade looked up from the heel strap, her eyes moving between the two of them, her fingers still hooked through the buckle. The prong found the hole she wanted and she pushed it through, the leather pulling tight across her ankle, the buckle clicking into place.
“I’m glad we’re cool.” Simone shifted her weight against the doorframe, her arms uncrossing, the clutch adjusting under her arm as she let her hands fall. Her chin lifted. “I still think you could do better than somebody else’s baby daddy though.”
Autumn rolled her eyes, her head tipping back with it until she was looking at the ceiling before it came back down. “Simone.”
Simone held her free hand up. “I said what I said. But I’m done.” She dropped the hand and pushed off the doorframe, standing straight. “We going out or what?”
Jade stood up from the edge of the tub, both heels on now, and stamped her right heel once against the tile, her weight dropping onto it. She shifted to the left and tested that one too, then tugged at the strap with her finger under the buckle and let go. “Where are we even going?”
“Devon sent me something about a spot in WeHo,” Brooke said from the hall.
Simone sucked her teeth, her head shaking once. “Last time we went to a spot Devon recommended, I had to fight a bitch for stepping on my shoes.”
Jade reached down and ran her thumb under the buckle on her right heel one more time. “ That’s on you. Ain’t nobody told you to be all up in that bitch space.”
Autumn turned back to the mirror, picked up her gloss from the counter, and twisted the cap off. She leaned in close to the glass and started on her lips, the applicator tracing her bottom lip in one smooth pass before she pressed them together and checked the coverage. She did the top lip, one side and then the other, the applicator following the curve of her cupid’s bow. She pulled the cap back on and set it down.
Behind her in the mirror, Simone had moved into the hallway and was saying something to Brooke, and Jade was on her feet adjusting the sit of her jeans over the tops of her heels.
~~~
Mireya sat sideways on the couch with her back against the armrest, her legs stretched across Sena’s lap, one ankle crossed over the other. Room service trays covered the coffee table in front of them, lids off, the food half-eaten, steam gone from everything that had been hot when it arrived. Mireya held a fork with a piece of steak on it and brought it to Sena’s mouth. Sena took it, chewing, her hand resting on Mireya’s shin, her fingers loose against Mirey’a skin. Mireya went back to the plate balanced on the cushion beside her and loaded the fork again, eating this one herself, her jaw working slow as she looked at the TV across the room.
Sena swallowed. “What were you like as a kid?”
Mireya’s fork paused over the plate. She shrugged, one shoulder lifting against the armrest. “Normal. I went to school. Came home. Did regular shit.”
“I don’t believe that. You weren’t running around telling everyone what to do?”
Mireya snorted a laugh, her chin dipping. “No, that wasn’t me. I had two friends. Angela and Paz. We did everything together.”
“You still talk to them?”
Mireya’s fork moved through the food on the plate without picking anything up, the tines dragging lines through the sauce. “No. They don’t fuck with me anymore. Especially Paz. She doesn’t like that I’m a fucking whore. As if she’s not getting dicked down.”
She loaded the fork and brought it to Sena’s mouth again. Sena took it, watching Mireya’s face while she chewed, her eyes moving across Mireya’s jaw and her mouth then up to her eyes.
Mireya pulled the empty fork back and set it on the plate. “Then I had Camila and I wasn’t a kid anymore.”
She picked the fork back up and started loading it before Sena could respond, her attention already back on the plate.
Sena’s thumb moved along Mireya’s shin, a slow stroke from the ankle toward the knee and back.
“I was the opposite. Everything was laid out. Piano lessons, tutoring, SAT prep starting in freshman year. My brothers had it easier because they were boys and they were older. By the time it got to me, my parents had figured out exactly what they wanted and I was supposed to deliver it.”
“And you did.”
Sena’s mouth pulled to one side. “Except for a son-in-law.”
Mireya lifted an eyebrow. “They’ll get over that shit.”
Sena pulled her hand from Mireya’s shin long enough to push her hair behind her ear, then brought it back, her fingers settling against the skin. “I knew something was different in like middle school. There was this girl in my class I couldn’t stop looking at. I didn’t have a word for it then.”
“But you still dated boys.”
Sena nodded, her thumb resuming its path along the shin. “Through high school. Even while I was with Alex I kept thinking maybe it was just her, maybe I wasn’t actually gay, maybe the next boy would make it click.” She shook her head. “It never clicked.”
Mireya loaded the fork again, this time reaching across to a different tray on the coffee table, pulling something off a plate she hadn’t touched yet. She held it out. Sena’s teeth closed around the fork, Mireya’s eyes dropping to Sena’s lips as she slowly pulled the fork back.
“I probably always knew that I was into guys and girls. It’s just easier. With guys. I told myself I wasn’t for a long time. Until well, you know.”
Sena chewed, swallowed. “Was Caine your first?”
Mireya laughed, the sound short. “No, but I don’t want to tell you how old I was because you’re gonna be on the next thing smoking back to Louisiana, blocking me and shit.”
Sena’s head tilted, her chin dropping toward her shoulder. “Now I’m intrigued.”
Mireya set the fork on the plate and picked up her water from the coffee table. She took a sip and set it back, the glass leaving a new ring on the wood next to the ones already there. She licked her bottom lip and looked at Sena.
“I was 12. It’s a long story.”
Sena’s hand stilled on Mireya’s shin. Her eyes stayed on Mireya’s face. Her expression shifted tightening at the corners of her mouth for a half second before it passed and her face went even again.
Mireya picked the fork back up. She loaded it with roasted potatoes and ate, her eyes on the plate, her jaw working through the bite. Sena watched her for another beat, her hand still on the shin but the thumb no longer moving. Then she picked up her own fork from the tray and went back to the food in front of her.
The lights from the buildings across the street pressed flat against the window behind them, the glass holding the city in long smears of white and yellow.
Mireya reached over and took something off Sena’s plate.
“You have your own.”
“I paid for this shit. Yours is mine, too.”
Sena shook her head but her hand came back to Mireya’s shin, her thumb finding the line it had been tracing all night.
Cerebral.