I stand next to him, shoulder to shoulder, trying to remain still. Trying not to breathe too hard or fidget too much. Trying to ignore how the pressure of his arm burns through my raincoat, or how the ghost of his cigarette entwined with the oaky notes in his aftershave make my nipples tighten. He stoops low to meet my ear and I brace for impact. “Suicide is a sin,” he rasps, his stubble grazing my cheek. “But Devil’s Dip has a way of making you want to throw yourself over the edge, doesn’t it?” And then he’s gone, those wingtips crunching over the gravel toward his car.
