Then there was that time Jersey and I almost got caught drinking in public. We were too broke to buy more than a couple of drinks at even the cheapest bar during happy hour so we pooled our cash and bought a fifth of rotgut vodka and a big bottle of orange juice at Murder Mart. We dumped out half the juice and topped it off with vodka. One giant screwdriver.
We just wandered around the waterfront in the late afternoon sun, passing the spiked OJ bottle back and forth. We found a bench that didn’t have bums sleeping on it, so we sat down to wait for the free spectacle of a summer sunset. Already the clouds were hinting at the golden hour to come.
I was going to say we both lit up cigarettes but Jersey didn’t smoke. Never had, or so he claimed. He just seemed like he’d be a smoker. His hands had a habit of looking at loose ends when not wrapped around a drink or slinging food in the kitchen down at the Rose and Thorn. Sometimes he simply rested his palms on the table and looked at the backs of his hands in a detached manner, as if they belonged to someone else.
It was only when he had a specific activity—say, holding a pool cue or rolling a joint or running fingertips along the length of my leg from hip to toe—that he and his hands seemed unified. I can still remember the weight of them on me, the heat, the way he could make slow urgency with a touch.