“Libby asked what you want to order?” she whispers. She glances at the server but says to me, “Are you okay?” No, I’m not okay. The lights are too fucking bright and my chest is too fucking hollow. It feels like there’s not enough inside of me to prop my bones up, and I’m going to implode at any second. And whose fucking bright idea was it to get burgers? Her loud laugh. Her wet coat drip-dripping onto the checkered tiles. Cough up, sugar daddy.
