Mike drives me home on Friday (because he doesn't realize that his house is nowhere near mine—and I've known it the whole time but I tell him I live almost on 133, and so does he, so clearly we're close). We spend the car ride blasting music and he lets me smoke a black as we drive past the rich town's beaches.

I know he finds something attractive in how dirty I can get in the simple work that we do, and it surprises me, because I always had to rely on wearing tight clothes before him.

"You know, me and Matt called you one time to come smoke with us," he says with a reminiscent grin.

"Oh, yeah? Well, funny, I never fuckin' got that message," I grin back—he never called, and it's like an inside joke.

"Well, we should smoke sometime: look at what I've got" and he waves a thick bag under my bloodshot eyes. I take a drag on my black.

"Whatcha doin' afta the interviews on Tuesday?" He looks at me with bright eyes and smiles again,

"Smokin' with you".

"Exactly," I say, and smile at how easy it is to take control. "So you'll call me, right? 'Cause I don't really appreciate all this bullshit."

"Yeah, I swear" he says, and looks insincere, but I don't care; it's enough to have a ride home. Before getting out I make sure to get some ash on his t-shirt so it's half as dirty as mine, and I watch him almost hit the house as he tries to turn around. Laughing, I shut the door, and finger the cell phone that I know will never ring.