Yesterday, I couldn’t sleep any more, so, after a solid half-hour of tossing and turning, I got up and opened my bedroom window, climbing straight out onto the roof and sitting quietly down on the shingles. It was the place where Mandy and I used to talk about life, smoking and getting high, pretending like the world wasn’t out to get us, dressed in black stilettos and hurtful stick-on nails. One day, about a month into our relationship, we were sitting on the roof, consumed by a blanket of humidity, when Mandy cocked her head to the side, and, smiling, asked, “Is that Mr. Sullivan changing?”
I grinned.
“Yeah, I think it is.”
Mr. Sullivan was the man who used to live in your house. He wore suits all the time, and wasn’t much on the eyes, with a belly full of steak and a moustache fit for a pedophile.
“I’d love to live there,” Mandy said as she took a drag from the joint, smoke filling the air around us. “Then, every night, before I went to bed, I could look out my window and see you.”
I chuckled, shaking my head, eyes tingling from the smoke. “You’re too beautiful for the nightmares hunting this street.”
She shrugged. “Maybe.”
