Bonfire: Jay
Picking up Tiffany was like volunteering for a root canal while trying to pretend I was at a party. I sat in the parking lot of her apartment complex for three minutes, gripping the steering wheel of the Honda until my knuckles turned white. It’s a heist, Jay, I told myself. You’re just distracting the guards. When she finally walked out she looked like a Walmart-brand Paris Hilton wannabe. She didn’t dress for the beach. Instead, she wore a skirt that might as well have been a belt, a tank top that was at least two sizes too small, her bleached blonde bangs were twisted into a little poof at the front of her hairline, and she had on enough perfume to knock out a swarm of mosquitoes. She hopped into the passenger seat, the artificial scent of her Victoria’s Secret body spray invaded
- Writer
