rubi inbox

[pharmacy]

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Quentin Smith, 23

letters ◇ thoughts ◇ dreams

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[pharmacy]

Quentin's hand presses harder, weight leaning precariously from his own stool into Billy's lap. "I am a man of...many talents."

[otherbitches]

"I don't believe you." Billy's mouth drops open, tongue dragging across Quentin's palm. He says, very muffled: "Quentin, do you fuck that old man?"

[pharmacy]

His nose scrunches, but he doesn't flinch. Sorry, Billy, it's a little predictable. "Yeah, I fuck him. It's hot, and real." His palm lifts, and he smears Billy's spit across his own cheek with a grin. "And in our dreams, I fuck him over the hood of the Porsche."

[otherbitches]

Billy's own spit drags across his face and his eyes narrow at Quentin for a beat. Then another. And then he laughs, loudly, enough that other patrons turn and look. "It's HOT and it's REAL?"

He cackles like a hyena. "That's awful. Sorry it's hotter in your dreams."

[pharmacy]

"God, shut up, Billy!" He said what he meant, what he felt, albeit a little more freely than he might have if he wasn't a little soused. Billy's barking laugh slides up his nerves like a papercut. Quentin lets go of his drink to free up both hands and shove Billy as hard as he can, hopefully off his chair.