47
Despite not knowing his precise identity, confirmation of Pinky Guy’s existence helped me sleep well. Until my alarm screamed at me a few hours later.
I staggered to the shower and dressed in a tank top and button-down shirt over jeans that may have seen too many days without a wash. The coffee aroma hit me in the hallway. I found Roger in the kitchen, pouring himself a cup—I wouldn’t hazard a guess at what number. The dining table was still covered with boxes, and he pointed at a plate of toast on the counter.
“Thank you. You look like crap, by the way,” I said, taking in his sunken eyes without mentioning my own unusual use of makeup.
Roger’s voice was deep and raspy, as though he was coming down with something or had gotten trapped in a burning building with me. “And here I’d for
