I knew it would suck, but I didn’t know it would suck so quickly.
By midafternoon, I start to crave it.
I don’t tell him that, of course. We’re playing a perfectly innocent game of Scrabble, and I don’t want to ruin it with unnecessary complaints about my cravings for drugs. He, of course, being Joey, notices it anyway.
“You’re sweating,” he observes as he spells out a vicious convertible. “Are you okay? It doesn’t feel hot in here to me.”
I grimace and pile my hair on top of my hair with a hair band. I’m sure I look horrible; I haven’t even showered in, what, two days? I haven’t looked in a mirror all day. Bad hair is the least of my problems. At least if it’s out of my face it won’t get sweaty.
I don’t actually answer his question, though; instead, I spell out a measly apple. He not
