CLUB LURE
Muffled strains of Jagged Little Pill punctured my sleep and dragged me into the land of the living. I cracked open my eyelids through a pounding headache to see Kilroy sitting on the corner of the mattress beside me.
“Turn off your f*****g phone,” I mumbled.
Kilroy silenced his phone with a swipe of his thumb and extracted a pill bottle from his pocket. He had contracted HIV sometime during his needle days and had to take a retroviral pill every day at the same time. This was not the world’s easiest task for someone on the road changing time-zones every few days, so he had programmed an alarm into his phone to go off every twenty-four hours: day or night, interrupting meals, sleep, rehearsals, and, at present, my self-absorbed pity party.
“You should really get out of the ho
