Later, in bed. Naked, Ange lay on his back, a glorious stretch of dusky skin that seemed to pull together into a thick, black knot at his crotch. He held a cigarette between his lips and took a long drag on it every now and then as he stared up into the unfinished rafters above the sofa-bed. Every time he raised a hand to pluck the cigarette from his mouth and tip the ash into an empty soda can that sat on the arm of the couch, Stacy caught the movement in the corner of his eye and looked up.
Inside he felt as hollow as that can, as if everything in him had spilled out or evaporated in the thick summer heat baking through the garage’s corrugated steel walls. He lay on his stomach, arms folded beneath him, the sheets that had covered him now kicked to the end of the mattress as the afterno
