She can see her knees, in a mirror from an open, cheap armoire at the end of the room, her least favorite body part on her whole body she thinks. Manish she thinks. She hides her boredom and she drinks her drink and Jesse speaks.

Sometimes I can’t do it. He says, I really can’t do it, and she nods and almost hums with him. Her eyelids slowly close as if not to miss a word he’s saying and she leans her head against a small bookshelf near her, never really losing eye contact with Jesse, from her eye-to-eye and black, mascara feathered eyelashes. Unnamed she listens and she imagines his shortcomings, feeling like lava from the cocaine drips. From the roof of her mouth, she tongues her honey.

Just like honey she thinks.

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