Arnie slides a wad of bills across the bar to me. “You are a little bit of magic, I think,” he says. “Good haul tonight.” I hop up to sit on the bar so I can give him a hug.

“Thanks, Arnie,” I say, kissing his cheek. He blushes a little.

“Don’t be a stranger,” he says softly, looking me in the eyes, sizing me up. “Okay?” It’s his way of taking care of me. “Okay?” He’s making sure I’m not falling apart. That my bruises will heal. It’s his way of saying something without saying anything specific, and I love him for it.

“Yeah,” I say. “Okay.”

Justin’s new place is two streets over from Main. We’re both too drunk to drive, so we leave my car at Arnie’s and walk over. Justin carries my guitar for me. There aren’t many people left walking around. It’s still cold and crisp and the puddles ice over at night. Binghamton won’t see the last of the snow for months.

I shower when I get to Justin’s. I’m in wash when you can mode. It doesn’t matter that I just showered at Arnie’s. I smell like bar and smoke and I’m sweaty from playing.

Justin’s shower isn’t too gross. The house is big and empty. It’s just me and him and it’s sweet, because of all the people I know, of all my pockets, Justin is my favorite. He’s my marker. I count time against him. I’ve watched him grow up. He’s older than me, two years, I think. So, he must be twenty-one now, but it feels like he’s a kid and I’m something else.

I tie my hair in a knot and pin it with some bobby pins I keep in my bag. I wrap myself in his towel and walk down the hall to his room.

Justin lit candles while I showered, the globe kind with psychedelic patterns that glow as the wick burns down. The candlelight reflects in the sheen of his Sports Illustrated posters. Patchouli clouds the room, but it doesn’t mask the fact that he’s stoned.

“Wow,” he says when he sees me. He already has condoms out. I can see the shiny wrappers next to a skull candle on the shelf over the bed. Three of them, lined up like a goal he’s set.

“What happened to your hair?” I ask, rubbing my hand over his head. The wax he slicked it with makes my palm sticky.

“I cut it.”

“I liked it long.” I wipe my palm on his comforter when he isn’t looking.

“Internship interviews. I’m a junior now.” He raises his eyebrows, tilts his chin down and looks up at the ceiling. He’s posing for me. Look how much I’ve grown.

“Ah.” I nod.