He held out his fist for a bump. I didn’t leave him hanging. He wished me a good break. I reciprocated. There was a bus ride, a flight of stairs; it took until I was cleaning the dishes for my stomach to want to rip itself out.
He asked her to talk about her feelings. She was downing glasses of steadily more vodka mixed with sprite. He stuck his hand down her pants. She started crying about her boyfriend. There was a blackout, a toilet; it took until the next morning when a friend said she liked the boy for her to really feel like puking her guts out.
I ignored her feelings. What happened to her did not impact me. In that moment, talking to him as if nothing wrong was simpler. Sometimes I believe I am past compartmentalizing.