“So tell me,” Karrie says, grabbing the glass of water in front of her while she looks at me. The menu opened in her lap. “How are things?”

I don’t answer because the waiter comes over, and we order a bottle of champagne with a pitcher of orange juice. “Matthew is going to drive home,” she tells me. “Now spill.”

“There is nothing to spill,” I tell her. “We bang.” It suddenly tastes weird.

“You bang?” she repeats, leaning in, and then stops talking when the waiter comes back and pours our drinks. “To banging.” She mocks me, and I click her glass. “So that is all you do? Just bang?”

“Well, we eat, too,” I tell her. “God, I’m not a savage, Karrie.”

“Does he cook for you?” she asks, grabbing a piece of bread and eating a piece.

“Mostly,” I tell her, then look down at my menu. “I cooked once.”

“Hold on a second,” Karrie says, closing her menu and putting it I don’t even know where. “You cooked for him?”

“I didn’t really cook for him.” I grab my drink and finish it, then pour myself another. “I cooked for myself, and he called, so he came over.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, looking around. “You cooked for him and had him come to your house?”

“I was cooking there, so yeah.” I take another drink, ignoring the hammering in my chest.

“The same place you call sacred and never have anyone over in,” she says, looking at me. “The same place you said would never be tarnished by any dicks.” She hits the table, laughing. “This is too good. Did you”—she looks at me, and my eyebrows pinch together—“you know?”

“If you’re talking about sex, yes, I had sex with him before and after,” I tell her and then pretend I’m reading the menu, but I can’t concentrate on anything.

“When was the last time you saw him?” she asks me, and I know full well that she’s waiting to laugh.

“This morning,” I tell her, and she laughs. “Karrie, I go over and visit the fish, okay?”

“The fish?” She puts her hand in front of her face. “The same fish you were going to give to the fire station?”

“Well, I didn’t, and I go visit her,” I tell her, and it sounds ridiculous even to me.

“How many visitations have you had?” she asks me, and I finish another glass and pour myself another one.

“Daily,” I tell her, and she gasps out in shock.

“We are just, you know,” I say, motioning with my hands. “Banging.”

“Holy shit,” she says. “You like him.”

“Don’t be absurd. Of course, I like him. I wouldn’t be going to pound town five times a day if I didn’t like him. I for sure like his cock,” I say, motioning with my hands.