When the restlessness gets to be too much, I abandon what’s left of the tequila and head for the stairs. Outside, the night air is cold and cruel. East 4th Street is quiet. A couple stumbles past, drunk and laughing, while a cab idles at the corner with its off-duty light switched on.
I turn west. My apartment is north and east, a straight shot up the Bowery to the bridge and across. I should go home so I can shower again and sleep. When I wake up tomorrow, I’ll figure out what the hell I’m doing with my life and my father’s orders and all of it.
I’m about to do exactly that—when my hand finds the mask in my jacket pocket.
I stop walking. My fingers close around the fabric. It’s still warm from being pressed against my body all night.
One is right. One is very f*****g wrong. Mat gave m
