None of my friends back home were in college. Gina would’ve known that if we’d ever actually had a serious conversation about anything. Mostly, we’d just get stoned and have sex, though that had stopped since things with Kim had taken a serious turn. Gina was my first after old whatshername living across the street with wimpy whatshisname.

Gina and I were like that. Some good things there — random, unpredictable sparks — but not anything we’d write home about if we ever wrote home.

Charles had calmed down a bit, but he could only shake his head. He was working afternoon shift at Chrysler’s, which might have given Robin some time for bobbin’ with somebody else. She’d told him that wasn’t true, but they always say that. I’ve said it myself. Unless you’re actually caught in the act, why hurt someone even worse? I preferred to be lied to.

You know how sometimes the weather’s in this in-between place and you keep taking off your jacket then putting it on again, then you end up leaving it in somebody’s car, or worse, back at the bar where you’ll never see it again? Gina and I were like that. Some good things there — random, unpredictable sparks — but not anything we’d write home about if we ever wrote home. Maybe she would’ve given Charles a tumble if he weren’t so drunk and lovesick, if he hadn’t fallen asleep on her floor. Mudboy kept licking his face, which made him laugh in his sleep, and I took that as a good sign.

Charles finally got up and agreed to walk Mudboy back to my place, where he fell asleep in his clothes on the dog-hair covered couch. I found him there the next morning, along with Mudboy, who was stupidly wagging his tail, happy to see me when I returned from Gina’s.

See what I mean? I was disloyal to my girlfriend, my best friend, and my dog, all in one night — the trifecta of bad behavior.

“I don’t know, Larry. What about Kim? She’s my friend — I don’t want….” She was pulling my shirt off while we talked.

“We don’t have one of those — whachacallit — agreements of exclusivelessness. She’s down there with Robert fucking Tripp right now.”

“Fripp. It’s Fripp. And she’s not sleeping with him.”

“But would she if she could?”

“Larry.”

“Did I ever tell you I like your underwear, how it’s shiny and smooth and everything?”

“It’s okay — I’m too wasted,” I said after various manipulations and manifestations. It had become obvious at that point. Then I fell asleep, and in the morning woke her up with hungover hard-on urgency.