Anyway. Part two. In which I go on writing about myself in the third person. In which I continue to act stupidly. Stop reading if you want.

Conrad Linthor sits down without being asked. He’s drinking something frozen. “Sidekick girl. You look terrible.”

All during this conversation, picture superheroes of various descriptions. They stroll or glide or stride purposefully past Billie’s table. They nod at the guy sitting across from her. Billie notices this without having the strength of character to wonder what’s going on. Every molecule of her being is otherwise engaged with processing a thousand lifetimes’ worth of misery, woe, self-hatred, heartbreak, shame, all-obliterating roiling nausea, and pain.

Billie says, “So we meet again.” She can’t help herself. It’s the kind of thing you end up saying in a hotel full of superheroes. “I’m not a sidekick. My name’s Billie.”

“Whatever,” Conrad Linthor says. “Conrad Linthor. So what happened to you?”

Billie swigs bitter espresso. She lets her hair fall in front of her face. Baby bird, she thinks. Leave me alone. Wrong smell.

But Conrad Linthor doesn’t go away. He says, “All right, me first. Let’s swap life stories. That girl at the desk when you were checking in? Aliss? I’ve slept with her a couple of times. When nothing better came along. She really likes me. And I’m an asshole, okay? No excuses. Every time I hurt her, though, the next time I see her I’m nice again and I apologize and I get her back. Mostly I’m nice just to see if she’s going to fall for it this time, too. I don’t know why. I guess I want to see where that place is, the place where she hauls off and assaults me. Some people have ant farms. I’m more into people. So now you know what was going on yesterday. And, yeah, I know, something’s wrong with me.”

Billie pushes her hair back. She says, “Why are you telling me all this?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. You look like you’re in a world of hurt. I don’t really care. It’s just that I get bored. And you look really terrible, and I thought that there was probably something interesting going on. Besides, Aliss can see us in here, from the desk, and this will drive her crazy.”

“I’m okay,” Billie says. “Nobody hurt me. I’m the bad guy here.”

“That’s unexpected. Also interesting. Go on,” Conrad Linthor says. “Tell me everything.”

Billie tells him. Everything except for the part where she pees the bed.

When her tale is told, Conrad Linthor stands up and says, “Come on. We’re going to go see a friend of mine. You need the cure.”

“For love?” Billie’s lame attempt at humor. She was wondering if telling someone what she’s done would make her feel better. It hasn’t.

“No cure for love,” Conrad Linthor says. “Because there’s no such thing. Your hangover we can do something about.”