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But she was a stripper.
She looked the part, played it, and made enough money to keep a roof over our heads.
That’s the story of me and Fay.
The only other part that maybe matters here is that Fay just turned thirty and secretly has been wondering what to do next in her life. She claims her boobs are already starting to sag and that maybe she’d like to have a few kids. But she wants to do it the right way, I guess. She wants a man in her life who will take care of her and the kids.
Every time she talks like that, she’s usually drunk or high.
And she stares at me in a funny way too.
Kind of like a hint…
Like she’s saying,‘Jaci, I love you and all, but get the fuck out of my house.’
I can’t take the hint though.
I guess I’m just an asshole like that.
Okay, I’m done talking about Fay, for now.
Back to the fact that she’s shaking my bed again.
Like she does every morning.
“Yo, Jaci, your car’s on fire,” she says.
I lift my head and force my eyes open. “What happened to the house burning down?”
“I’m not lying,” Fay says. “Your car is on fire. Also, breakfast is ready. Oh, and there’s a letter waiting for you. I think you should read it as soon as possible.”
“Okay, thanks,” I say.
I shut my eyes and plan on sleeping for a little while more.
Then I hear sirens in the distance.
My eyes open again and I throw myself out of the crooked bed being held up by books I’ll never read and never would read.
I look out the window.
“Oh, fuck me,” I whisper.
Fay wasn’t lying this time.
My car is totally on fire.
There’s not much to do but stare.
Of course, the entire neighborhood comes out to rubberneck.
Half of them have their phones out, ready to take up space with a video that they can break out during an awkward pause at a holiday dinner.
I fucking hate people.
Fay hands me a cup of coffee in a chipped mug.
I turn the mug around so I don’t end up with a torched car and a shard of cheap ceramic in my tongue.
