I am supporting the ghost of Jackie’s body and doing math. How many drinks has she had? Three? Four? We are curved together over the lip of the trash can as she empties her stomach. Her bile smells sweet and acrid, the desiccated remnants of a mango-pineapple mixer. A cup of ice water sits, sweating and futile, on the floor by her feet. Her skin is shiny and leached of color, amplified by the artificial lights in the windowless bar bathroom. Earlier there was a man, tall and insistent. Men ...
