February 07, 2013
When it got late, the boy could guess I would make him leave soon. I was as alone with my drink as I always was. He tapped the glass with a dirty fingernail. Then he studied the fingernail and heaved a series of sighs. I covered my drink. I didn’t want to see what would come out of him. I figured his fingernails were too long, so he was thinking about his mom, who usually cut them. I didn’t know where the clippers were; I had always bit my nails to the skin.