She was on her knees in a crummy apartment with peeling paint and a fan that didn’t work — summer air thick like soup. The guy stood there like a goddamn statue, all muscle and meat and not saying a word. She looked up, eyes wide, not innocent, just tired of pretending. It wasn’t love, it wasn’t porn — it was just another night, another weird story for some barstool conversation ten years from now, maybe. I lit a cigarette and turned away — some things you don’t watch too long without losing a little more of whatever soul you got left.