Once I get to the apartment, I go straight to take a shower. Looking at the reflection of my face in the mirror above the sink, I frown. This simple gesture presses on the invisible pain switch and I enjoy it.
I rummage through the pockets of my jumpsuit to pull out my cell phone and text Kate:
“I’m coming to pick you up... What time are you done?”
Her answer takes forever to arrive and it annoys me.
“In an hour. Thank you, I didn’t want to wait for the 6 o’clock bus.”
“It’s my pleasure. I’ll be waiting for you in the parking lot... I’m the guy near the Pontiac.”
I smile, which immediately triggers pain. If only I wasn’t in such a state. How am I going to hide it from her? Behind a scarf and glasses?
“Why are you being specific? Are there a lot of tattooed guys with Pontiacs in the
