Chapter 12: The Widder Douglas
I need a drink.
Not because today is Valentine’s Day, our anniversary. It has come without dread, malleable as it was. We never quite decided if we should mark it when we first dined somewhere with a tablecloth; when we first had oral s*x; when we first had anal s*x; or when, in college, we moved in together off-campus. February 14 was the most practical day to cultivate.
I need a drink to cancel out today, fraught for other reasons.
The week began easily. I made a couple hires: Sophie, who goes by Soapsuds, due to her frothy platinum hair, and Desliles. Soapsuds has recently been a bottle hooker at a downtown club, selling thirty-dollar bottles of vodka for twelve-hundred to professional athletes, and Desliles can give up moonlighting as a living Statue
