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Undisclosed’s only gay bar, The Cockpit, is in the bad end of town.
This isn’t really saying much, given most of Undisclosed is ‘the bad end of town,’ but what I mean when I say that is that it’s caddycorner to 54th and a street everyone refers to as Murder Street. The cops get called there so often they may as well just set up camp somewhere nearby to save themselves the commute.
The Cockpit is also brand-new. Not like it’s a new building, we don’t really have those. It’s the basement of an older one, which sat empty with a sign saying FOR RENT with a phone number below that for something like five years before it finally got turned into the gay bar.
There was a lot of protesting, of course. People with way too much time on their hands thinking about what other people do with their genitals in their private time picketing the renovation. Idiots didn’t come back after someone inside kept throwing chunks of drywall and shit at them, though. People in Undisclosed may be bigoted but they’re also fucking cowards. And so The Cockpit was built.
And, because he’s insane, John had insisted his 30th birthday party take place there.
Look, I couldn’t possibly tell you why John does most things, but I really couldn’t tell you why he’s doing this. Not like I give much of a shit, it’s John, he could tell me his birthday party was taking place in the abandoned sewers full of bats and homeless people or the mouth of an active volcano and I’d fucking be there, I don’t care. But I was gonna be there for this especially because fuck if I’m about to let my best friend get stabbed on his goddamn birthday.
For whatever reason, he’s invited us to his house an hour and a half before we’re supposed to head out. The sun’s setting, I’m driving, he technically didn’t invite me and just asked Amy but I don’t know what he expected to happen there given she doesn’t drive. When we turn up at his front door, Joy’s the one who opens it, and she seems annoyed already. Instead of greeting us she says, mostly to Amy I’m assuming, “Can you tell him he is not allowed to use my makeup?”
Amy seems to be prepared for this. She’d brought a grocery bag, but I just thought she bought him a present, even though he said no presents. She always gets people a little something. I assumed she just hadn’t had enough spoons to wrap it—not like John would give a shit. She holds it aloft like she’s showing it off, as if it isn’t just a plastic Target bag wrinklier than an old man’s nutsack. “I brought mine, don’t worry about it.”
It hasn’t even been two minutes and I already don’t know what’s going on. “What?”
Joy sighs and steps aside as we walk in. “He’s doing drag and fuck if I’m gonna let him get his germy hands all in my Clinique, okay?”
“Okay,” I answer, baffled, not understanding that sentence.
“Amy!” John steps out of the kitchen and seems excited to see her. He is wearing the stupidest getup I have ever seen—some kind of leather vest covered in tassels that deserved to be left in the 70’s, a cowboy hat (a normal one this time, but I hate that this means he owns more than one), and the smallest jean shorts you could find that wouldn’t just be a thong. I hate everything about it. “Oh, you brought Dave.”
His tone kind of pissed me off, like he wasn’t expecting me and maybe wasn’t so thrilled, but Amy just brushes right past it, lifting the bag again. “Come on, this is gonna take a little while, I think.”
It’s right about then that what Joy said actually sinks in. “Wait, what?”
“Just wait in the living room,” John gestures, like I'm his dog. “Joy will keep you company.”
She doesn’t even look up from her phone as she says, “No I will fucking not.”
“You’re going out in drag?”
My tone is a little more, I don’t know, aggressive than I want it to be—I just want someone to answer me for a damn second—and John gets this weird look on his face that’s almost nervous. “Yeah.”
“Oh.” I don’t actually know what to say after that. “Why?”
“Because I want to?” Now his tone gets a little aggressive. “What’s the problem?”
“I just, uh, didn’t know,” I say, a little lamely. Feels like I’ve really put my foot in my mouth here. They’re both staring at me. I look over to the couch and say, “Yeah, I’ll wait out here. Um. Have fun?”
That seems to ease the tension, thank fucking god. I don’t want John to think I’m some jackass who polices what other people do, but it also kinda sucks that he didn’t include me in that part of the party planning.
…Unless he did and I just wasn’t paying attention.
I sit down on the couch. Joy doesn’t acknowledge me whatsoever. “...Did you know about this?”
She rolls her eyes in exasperation. “Ugh, yes. He nagged me to borrow my shit for days. I told him no way, over my dead body, I don’t care that it’s your birthday, maybe you should’ve asked for some as a gift.” She still doesn’t look up from her phone. I wonder what could possibly be so interesting that she can’t tear her eyes from it for a second, but maybe she just doesn’t want to look at me. It’s not like we get along. “Did he seriously not tell you?”
“I dunno. Maybe I forgot.”
She snorts and actually looks up for a second. “You’re a clown but you’re not an amnesiac as far as I know. I think you wouldn’t forget this, it’s weird.”
“It’s not weird,” I find myself saying automatically, out of some kind of misplaced defense mechanism. She raises an eyebrow at me. “I mean John does crazy shit all the time. This isn’t that strange.”
Joy shrugs and goes back to her phone. Once again I feel like I’ve chosen the wrong dialogue tree in a conversation but I can’t go back without it being awkward so I decide to just sit and stare at the TV.
John’s got one of those “smart” TVs that I cannot, for the fucking life of me, understand the point of. He doesn’t have cable anymore, just shit like Netflix and Hulu and whatever. It takes me 10 minutes to find anything in there worth looking at (and Joy is no help of course) but eventually I just start watching King of the Hill. I haven’t seen it in years.
It’s still really good, honestly.
About an episode and a quarter in, Amy comes downstairs, Johnless. I don’t even have to ask her what happened, only give her a perplexed look, and she says, “He kicked me out.”
“Why?”
“Well,” she sits down next to me and kind of sighs the word out in one big huff. Joy looks up from her phone. “He’s a very particular man and I ‘wasn’t doing it right.’” She shrugs. “It’s his birthday, I’m just gonna let him be a diva.”
“Wise choice.” I say, at the same time Joy says, “Mean of him.”
“You might wanna get back in there, lest he ruin your makeup.” I haven’t heard anyone use the word lest in fucking years. John was probably the last person I heard to say that, during one of his phases of talking like an absolute alien for kicks, and I stare at Joy. She doesn’t even acknowledge me.
Amy, somehow, doesn’t think anything of this bizarre word Joy’s dropped so casually. “Oh, I didn’t bring anything I truly care about. I really only wear a little eyeliner, you know?” This is true. I know fuckall about makeup, but I do know Amy has, lately, been doing some kind of thing where she’s got a black line on her upper eyelid right next to the lashes and this little triangle at the outer edge of her eyes. It’s cute, it looks like cartoon eyelashes. She could probably paint herself to look like a clown and I’d still think she’s cute because she’s my girlfriend and I’m obligated to but I’m being honest here when I say the eyeliner thing is cute.
The girls start talking about eyeliner, and I tune them out in favor of Hank Hill giving yet another little speech about how great propane and propane accessories are. Maybe the reason John didn’t tell me about this is because I really have little to nothing to do with any of it. It’s not like I know much of anything. I’ve watched Amy put on makeup for Halloween, but that’s probably not the same.
Halfway through the third episode, John comes downstairs again, and I glance up and immediately freeze.
You know how, when you’re in middle school, sometime between, I don’t know, fifth and sixth grade, the girls start wearing makeup, and they all look like they’ve just sort of… slapped it on? Like they’re not quite sure where it’s meant to go yet? I have visceral memories of bright-blue powder over eyelids going aaaaaall the way up to scribbled-in eyebrows and smeary red lipstick that wears off after lunch. Girls wearing foundation that matches an orange more than it matches their skin tone, and just sort of stops at their chins, giving them an eerie I’m-wearing-a-mask kind of appearance.
John’s look is… a step above that, for sure, but still very “I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing.” For a split second I consider, really consider, pointing this out to him. He’s got this pink dust all over his eyelids, surrounding his eyes really, and a dark red color under his eyebrows, and he’s covered those with something that’s either dark brown or black and doesn’t match his hair at all (he bleached it blonde again last week, and it looks half-dead right now). I’m about to tell him this is a bad idea when I see him grin so fucking wide it looks like it hurts and I just can’t make myself do it. He gets closer and I see he’s got some eyeliner on that honestly looks really similar to Amy’s, which I assume is all she got done before he got bitchy about it. It’s a little dusty with eyeshadow. As are his cheeks, which does not look purposeful. I wonder for a moment how much that shit gets everywhere when you’re trying to put it on. It is powder, after all. I was there when John went through his leather pants phase, I know how baby powder containers just kind of belch that shit out all over the place if you so much as gently prod them. Maybe the fact that it’s only on his eyes and cheeks and not his whole face is a massive achievement.
I will say, at least, that the pink-and-red thing manages not to look like he’d been punched in the face, or like he’s terribly sick, and it makes his eyes just uncomfortably blue. Reminds me of how intensely green Amy’s eyes are, framed by her bright-red hair. This is a comparison I immediately banish and refuse to ever think of again.
Also, he’s swapped the thong-shorts for a leather miniskirt, which is not better in terms of ass coverage, but I have to admit at least completes his leather theme.
“How do I look?” He tosses his hands up, grinning, posing, like he’s expecting us to shower him with praise.
Joy glances up and does actually stare for a moment. “You sure do… look.” She doesn’t say he looks bad, but her tone doesn’t say he looks good.
To my surprise Amy gives her a look that she usually reserves for me. It’s that kind of furrowed-brow disapproving frown, her you’re being very rude right now face. She’s even giving Joy a harsher version of this display than I get, presumably because Joy should be a lot better with humans than I am. “I think you look fantastic, John,” she says soothingly, which I think is laying it on a little thick.
His eyes flick to me and I remember I’m actually part of this conversation. Of course he wants to include me when it comes to stroking his already-massive ego. “Looks, uh, nice.” I’m lying, but only a little bit. It’s probably nice. Ish. What do I know? We’re going to a bar and it’s probably gonna be dark as shit, anyways, so what does it matter?
John snorts. “Eh, I’ll take it. Is Head and everybody else here yet?”
“No,” I answer. “Knowing them they’re gonna be late.”
He sighs in annoyance and flops down on the couch next to Amy. There’s not quite enough room for all of our asses on this couch but that has not ever and will not ever stop him, I’m sure. Amy squishes into my side a little more and I once again consider going on a diet. I know I don’t have the self-control for that, but that doesn’t mean I can’t consider it.
As predicted, Three-Arm Sally shows up late, but they do show up all together at least. It’s dark out now and we all pile into the van to be chauffeured to the bar, this beat-up old Ford our limousine for the night. Head turns the radio up far too loud for my liking but I don’t say shit because virtually everyone else is singing along to it. I don’t sing, not even if you hold me at gunpoint and insist I try, so I keep my mouth shut and just enjoy the ride.
After some reckless driving that has poor Amy clinging to my arm like a lifeline, we arrive. Head parks better than John does but worse than I would and we all spill out of the van doors like the world’s worst circus act, heading directly for the front door, which is actually a kind of side-door in the brick wall of the building that makes this whole thing seem even shadier. Above it is a banner reading THE COCKPIT, though, so it feels a little less like we’re walking into a deathtrap.
The Cockpit is absolutely puny. I’ve never been inside this basement lot before and looking at it from the outside it doesn’t seem big or anything, but somehow it’s even smaller inside, like a reverse-TARDIS. I think. Amy made me sit through that show but honestly, I kept falling asleep. That’s the only thing I remember, the box with a stupid name that’s mall-sized on the inside of it for some stupid reason. Don’t tell her I called it stupid, it’ll hurt her feelings.
Our party of eight idiots is the largest group here. There’s two women at the pool table who kind of look like men, and I’ve seen them around town before. I’m pretty sure they’re married or something. Someone else who is either a woman with a very strong jawline and some stubble, or another man in drag (I don’t care which, I’m just trying to paint a picture here), is sitting alone at the bar, talking with the bartender, who’s a bald man in one of those tank tops that’s basically a loincloth for your torso. Two shirtless fat dudes sitting at a table together, talking. And that’s about it—there’s no one else in here. The music is loud as shit, though, as if the place is crowded.
After ordering and paying for a beer I make a beeline for a table, aiming to just sit and tolerate being here for John’s sake, only getting off my ass for drinks or if he asks me to do something. Amy, Kelly, and Head all tag along with me, though Kelly just puts her bag down and asks Head to watch it for her before rejoining John and the rest at the bar itself. She’s been trying to drink less, so I guess if she doesn’t have her wallet right there next to her she’s thinking she won’t order anything.
I take a moment to look around. If I’m being honest, this place is pretty normal. Slightly cleaner than the bars I’m used to, but normal. Except for much of the decor, which makes it look like a rainbow threw up everywhere. The ceiling is covered in dangling flags, and rainbows made out of that kind of scrunchy piñata material, as well as streamers of all the rainbow colors. The walls hold about 8 paintings altogether, presumably from local artists given many of them look like shit. I wonder if any of them are John’s; I haven’t seen him do art in years, but he was really talented in high school. Sometimes I miss it, I’ll be honest. I considered getting him a sketchbook for a gift, but didn’t know if he’d get use out of it, and couldn’t really justify spending the money otherwise. Things are tight for Amy and I right now.
There are some other people who trickle in as the night goes on. I didn’t pay much attention to them. Some people leave, too, like the masculine lesbian duo. It got a little busier closer to midnight, but not by very much. I don’t feel like talking to people much today so I sit at the end of the booth and people-watch.
It really hits me how normal all of these people are. I’d kinda thought a gay bar would be completely different, I don’t know, that people would just be sucking and fucking out in the open. Not like that’s wrong… and not like that doesn’t sometimes happen at clubs and bars just in general. But it’s uncomfortable there and it’d be uncomfortable here. Instead, though, I’m just watching what looks like normal bar activity.
This is going to sound really stupid, but I honestly had no idea you can just… be gay. Look, the only gay people I know are Vinny and Other Vinny, and even then I don’t really know them. I watched RuPaul’s Drag Race with John, briefly, while he was going through this weird phase of being utterly obsessed with it—He demanded to share it with the both of us, and Amy liked it enough that we got roped into multiple watch sessions. I didn’t get it, to be honest. It just always seemed like a lot of effort, you know? If you’re a gay woman, you have to dress up like a man, or whatever, and if you’re a gay man, you have to spend something like three hours putting on makeup and wigs and shit, and say weird things like slay whenever anything mildly interesting happens. What I’m saying is I thought to be a gay man you have to look pretty, something I’m sure I could never manage. It just all sounded like way too much effort and I couldn’t for the life of me understand why anybody would do it.
That’s just kind of the general concept I had of gay people. I mean sure, I also get that they, you know, have sex with the same gender. That part’s obvious. But I thought all the decorum and shit was part of that, and you can’t do one without the other—Meaning, if you’re a man who wants to fuck men, you’ve gotta be a drag queen, and a good one at that or else who’d wanna fuck you?
This bar, though, really feels like it’s just… full of normal people. There’s two other drag-queen types in here but they look like John: casual, kind of ridiculous, just… fun. They just look like they’re having fun. The two fat dudes in the back are holding hands. As I’m looking at them (definitely not staring) two dudes who look like they’ve just come out of a frat party who’d been standing between me and them start making out, at which point I look away, because of course I do, I’m definitely not going to watch two strangers play tonsil hockey. There’s two women in sundresses that practically look like something that Amy would wear laughing together at the bar, sharing something bright-pink and served in what I think might be a mason jar.
I’m a little embarrassed that it took me this long to realize they’re all just… people. Not automatically better than or more put-together than me and Amy. Just people. No extra effort needed.
Hell, man, those two dudes in the back look like me.
Gives me some kind of a weird feeling deep in my gut to consider so I decide to just push it aside. It’s comfortable in here, everybody’s happy, and I’m not about to spiral into shoegazing self-reflection during John’s fucking birthday party. I need another beer.
While I’m up at the bar I keep a sort of eye on John and his two new friends, in the peripheral of my vision. If I look directly at them, John will probably wave me over, and while I’m perfectly happy to be here for him I’m not eager to talk to new people. But I am kind of curious about what they’re talking about. I don’t really know what John could have in common with two gay strangers, but then again, he befriended Vinny and Other Vinny somehow.
Right as the bartender gives me my beer and I hand over my money, Head struts up to the trio and announces loudly, “How about a round of shots for you ladies?” All three cheer. I turn to head back to my table and try not to think about it, taking a gulp of the beer I’ve just been handed.
Unfortunately, as I’m on my way back to safety, I get intercepted by some random guy. Kind of fat, less so than me but then again most people are, and he’s also wearing one of those tank tops that barely qualifies as a shirt, its sleeves cut all the way down his sides—I guess those are popular right now. Can’t for the life of me know why he’d want his rolls on full display but maybe he doesn’t feel as shit about his weight as I do about mine. Lucky guy. “Hey, I just wanted to say, I love your shirt.”
“Oh, uh,” I look down. It’s one of those stupid gimmick shirts Amy got me forever ago. It says PHILADELPHIA: WHERE THE WEAK ARE KILLED AND EATEN. “Thanks.” I’ve forgotten to do laundry for two weeks now and just picked up the shirt that smelled the least offensive without checking it.
“Where’d you get it?”
“No idea. It was a gift.”
He laughs and I take a sip of my beer, wondering if now I can just wander away and it won’t be rude. Alas, he says, “You by yourself, or here with someone?” And I realize the shirt thing was just an excuse to talk to me, which is weird given most people absolutely do not want to fucking talk to me.
Against my wishes, I’ve been sucked into a conversation with this man, and I steel myself to endure it. “Oh, uh, no, I’m here with my girlfriend,” I look around, hoping she’s nearby and will save me from this conversation by picking it up herself. Regrettably, she’s left the table and is talking to the two sundress women at the bar.
“Ah, yeah,” he nods. “I’d be here with my boyfriend, but he’s out of town.” I had the thought, You go to bars without your boyfriend?, but I didn’t say it. Just because I hardly go places without Amy doesn’t mean everybody else lives that way, I guess. “It’s real busy tonight, this place is hardly ever this crowded. Shame my other partner didn’t want to come with me tonight, but they never wanna go anywhere.”
Crowded? There’s maybe fifteen people here. I mean yeah, the building is smaller than a rat’s asshole, but that’s still not a lot of people for a bar. I’m also feeling a very intense confusion at the fact that this guy has a boyfriend and some nebulous partner, but fuck it, that’s none of my damn business. I take another swig of my beer for a little thinking time and say, “Might be our fault. It’s John’s birthday, we’re a party of eight people.”
His eyes light up. “Oh, how nice! Which one’s John, I’ll wish him a happy birthday.”
Seeing an out to a social interaction I didn’t really want, I point out my trainwreck of a best friend, who’s currently knocking down some kind of bright-red drink as fast as he can to the joy and delight of those around him: center of attention, as he usually is. “That one, in the, uh, leather vest.” As we watch, John slams the cup of ice down on the table and all the ridiculous tassels on the vest shiver. Everyone around him cheers and he lifts a fist into the air, triumphant.
“Ooh, he’s cute. Is he single, by any chance?”
“Uh.” I hesitate. It occurs to me, right at this second, that John and I have never actually discussed anything like this. He pretty openly hooks up with a lot of women, everybody knows that, it’s natural to just assume he’s straighter than I am but, well… I never would’ve thought he’d want to do drag and go to a gay bar yet here we are. I think back to when Joy first arrived, and I mistook her clothes in his closet for his. I’ve always known that there’s a lot I don’t know about John. “He is, but I, uh, don’t know if he’s interested.”
“Well, guess I’ll find out.” The guy flashes me a sort of playful grin and heads for John. I don’t really want to watch. I don’t know why but some part of me is averse to finding out if John is interested. I wouldn’t think any less of him if he’s into men, of course I wouldn’t, but I just… I don’t want to know, and I don’t know why I don’t want to know, but I’m not about to unpack it tonight. My beer is only half-gone, I definitely need to drink just a little more so I quit fucking thinking, sit down at the table, and knock the rest of it back in the next five minutes.
The group’s split up a fair bit. It’s really just me, Joy, and Head at the table now, I guess he came back after buying them some shots, and Joy’s still on her phone. She’s typing a lot like she’s texting someone but when I sneak a peek at her screen she’s doing some kind of crossword puzzle, which is really fucking weird but I can’t bring it up without revealing that I was snooping. This leaves Head and I, who have very little in common aside from John’s friendship, to struggle to have a conversation.
“Did you know about…” I gesture, vaguely, “all of this?”
“Oh, yeah,” he bobs his head. “Yeah, he talked about it for weeks.”
I find myself feeling a little hurt. “Oh.”
“Did you not?”
“I mean—He told me where we’d be going, yeah, but the, uh… the drag was… a surprise.” I’m trying really hard to keep my tone neutral. I just don’t know what to think.
To my surprise, Head looks sympathetic. “Man, he’s just… He’s real bad at telling people shit. We only knew ‘cause he asked Kelly for makeup tips and we were all like, ‘hang on, why?’” He takes a sip of water. At some point he abandoned whatever booze he was drinking in favor of sucking down water bottles like he’s been stranded in the desert for weeks. “I guess it was less of a surprise to us, ‘cause sometime in the 2010s or whatever he suggested we do that on-stage as a gimmick. Nobody but Kelly was on board with that, though, so we didn’t. Though, I think he did it on his own a couple times…I spent a lot of those concerts high as balls, I don’t remember.”
I feel a little less bad, but simultaneously even more surprised than I was at the start of this whole thing. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. He shut up about it after that, though.” Head looks over at John, at the opposite end of the bar, in a little gaggle of people, then scratches his nose. “He’s…” Head sighs. “Man, he’s hard to be friends with. I feel like we’re the closest people to him, y’know, and yet I never know what’s going on with him. He doesn’t say shit. Even if you ask him directly ‘hey man, what’s up, are you good?’ he won’t tell you shit if he doesn’t want to.” He looks back at me with a weird, almost sheepish look on his face, and amends, “Or, well—I mean, does he tell you shit?”
His tone suggests he thinks I’m more likely to hear about John’s mental state than him, which surprises me until I remember that I'm, supposedly, as everyone insists, John's best friend. I think back for a second. The beer clouding my head makes it a little difficult but in the end I come up with, “No.” No, John doesn’t tell me things, not really. I’m hit with the realization that for all I’ve confided in John, he’s never done the same with me. I’d just kind of assumed he had other friends who he talked to about his problems—but here I am, talking to his other friends who he’d probably talk to about his problems, and they’re saying the same thing. Jesus Christ, does he open up to anyone?
“Yeah,” Head sighs, pulling me back out of my head.
Neither of us says anything more, and the air feels awkward. I gaze out at the people John’s mingling with. Not for the first time do I feel a pang of mild envy at the easy way he interacts with other people, but honestly, now that I’m older—I would rather die than have as many friends and acquaintances as he does. I can barely keep up with the nebulous little network of friends I’ve accrued (most of them coming to me through him, or Amy). I have no idea how he does it without getting too exhausted to do anything else.
“M’gonna get just one more beer,” I find myself saying, getting up out of the booth.
It’s a bit all downhill from there, to a certain degree. Somewhere halfway through that beer the alcohol starts really hitting me. I can’t actually tell you how I ended up in the throng of people all chatting with each other, but here I am, having a conversation I can barely keep track of with the same guy from earlier. Turns out we actually have a lot in common. I can’t tell you what, in hindsight, because by this point my body was full of enough beer that my brain had forgotten how to function, just a little. I’m not used to it yet, but my psychiatrist did tell me that Lexapro makes alcohol hit a little harder, so this isn’t a surprise. It’s probably a good thing that I didn’t go too hard at this party.
Anyways, as I’m talking to him, I’m starting to think that, well, hey, if there’s not really that big of a difference between me and this gay dude, why couldn’t I be gay, too? Anybody could be gay, even my ugly ass, not just pretty boys who could wear eyeliner, like John. I mean, I love Amy, with everything in me—I’d say something like “my whole heart,” but that’s too small, and I don’t believe in souls, so it’s not “my whole soul,” either. You know what I mean, though. It’s something I thought was never even an option for me because I was too—ugly, and fat, and everything I am, but man, I’m just a person (as much as I can claim to be). They’re just people. We’re all the same. I could’ve been one of them if I wasn’t a coward in my 20s.
With that thought, I need another beer. Luckily, they are easy to acquire and easy to drink, especially once you’ve lost count of how many you’ve put in yourself.
We stick around for another hour, until we’re practically the only people in here, at which point I guess everyone but me talks about what to do next and decides it’s time to go home. I don’t care, I’ve been game to go home since I got here, and unlike John I put up no protest to the notion.
Everyone’s drunk as shit, except for Amy, who can’t drink because of her pills and doesn’t like the taste anyways, and Head, who quit three hours ago and has been plowing through bottled water instead. The two of them herd everyone out the door and into the van; I end up in the backseats, Amy on one side of me and John on the other. He’s fucking wasted, I had to catch him from falling twice just on the way from the building to the car, and once his ass is settled in the seat he’s leaning on me like he can’t sit up straight. It doesn’t bother me.
“Did you have fun?” Amy asks him, leaning over me.
He grins drunkenly. “Fuck yeah.”
We’re only halfway to the first person’s house when John starts leaning on me properly, head on my shoulder and all that shit. His eyes are closed. It takes him starting to snore for me to realize he fell asleep at some point.
Sleep sounds like a great fucking idea, if I’m being honest, and I let my head fall back onto the seat. I’m out before I even think about closing my eyes, I’m pretty sure.
That was fun, goodnight.