Not Quite Dead Yet

by Holly Jackson

Didn’t alcoholics have to get good at pretending? Until they stopped caring, that was, like this man in front of her.

Jet gripped the chair beneath her, her hand grazing Billy’s on the way. He grazed hers back, like she’d done it on purpose, like their hands had a secret conversation of their own.

Billy Fucking Finney, eh? Who would have thought?

Jet turned to Billy, reached into his jacket pocket like it was her own, pulled out his phone. Billy didn’t mind.

‘Best week of your life, huh, Billy?’ ‘You said it, Jet.’