Chapter 13
I hadn’t wanted him to hold my hand to remove a splinter or kiss my scrapes. His mouth service and the potential goods he’d provide were enough. Any romance began and ended when he left. Besides, he’d mentioned “a close buddy” in San Francisco, and I didn’t need to complicate a decent “blow and go.”
The bleeding stopped, and I wadded the paper towel into a ball and tossed it into the trash. My stomach growled and reminded me of other appetites. From the fridge, I collected a jar containing barley flakes soaking in almond milk, a honey pot, and pulled a spoon from a drawer. I slipped on another pair of shorts, then took my breakfast to the front porch, sat on an old rocking chair, and rested my legs on the railings. Hummingbirds chased around blooming trumpet vines, taking up their frantic feasting. Hungry, I followed suit.