"Hey -- it's your friend. Why don't ya go talk to him?"

I take my eyes off the sentence I'd been reading for an hour and glance toward the counter. Seems Jayson thinks he's got his own game going. Thinks he's the sarcastic one with all the power, pretending he doesn't care that I stare at other people while he sits next to me and buys me drinks and rubs my shoulders.

Standing there in all his pubescent glory is some guy we named Punk Rock for lack of a more creative epithet. Freshly dyed black spiked hair tops his pale baby face, his head being held on by black leather and silver spikes. He'd be Sid Vicious if only he could score some decent junk, but by that time he'll be in a different phase.

Jayson with hint of ironic jealousy tries to get me to talk to him. Been there, done that. It's hard to speak coherently over a wall of teenage libido.

As Punk Rock slides past us towards some out of sight couch, John sits on the arm of the couch, so that I'm basically leaning on him now. That means all three of us -- Jayson included in the group like an unwanted inbred sister -- are staring, trying to stifle laughter. I think we all must have the same look on our faces, contemptuous antagonistic pedophile lust. There's something about someone so goddamn naïve that they still philosophize about the state of the world in musical terms while sitting in coffeehouses on weekends before their curfew comes that makes you want to spoil them, show them ecstasy then drop them on their heart, and kick them a couple times just for good measure. There is a sick delight in torturing the young, especially when they look like Punk Rock.

But I've lost myself in my head and missed his initial walk-by. The boys are laughing louder so I squint my eyes past my mind and tune back in. Punk Rock stands in the spotlight trying to make eye contact with one of us. His head slumps into his chest and coffee spills. He turns away either in embarrassment or with the same obsessive disgust we hold for him.

"Putz," John yells, his voice cracking over the noise I notice the speakers are trying to pass off as music. I laugh. Jayson stops having fun -- he's lost my attention. The three of us settle into a quiet lull and of course someone should talk to break the awkward silence before Jayson decides to put his head on my lap or something.

I stare at John willing him to speak; he does. He mentions my encounter with Punk Rock. Tell me what went down, he says. I'm kinda interested in knowing, he says. Fuck, I hate this story, but I'm going to tell it anyway.

"So, yeah, he introduced himself as horny, licked my hand, yanked my wallet chain." I look around shooting boredom from my eyes, but the boys are still listening. "So yeah, he pulled me onto his lap and, like, offered me a pizza and a fuck. He should of, have had a shirt on that said, How to be Punk and still not get laid."

"Wait, didn't you put your cigarette out in his girlfriend's drink? That is Punk Rock; I think you have him beat."

"Who's been telling my story?" I want to know who was talking about me when I wasn't around more than what was said.

"Jayson mentioned it last night." Ahh -- figures it would have to be him.

At the mention of his name, Jayson stops drawing comic book psychotic stereotypes and leans over me. "What kinda shit ya talkin' now."

"Just saying how fucking sleazy you are," John answers.

Jayson hits John in the head sending his blond curls into a spastic dance of chaos. Of course, John in all his leather jacket toughness has to hit him back. I'm stuck in the middle of a cat fight, the next ultra-light weight bout of the century.

It takes like two seconds before I decide that elbow jabs to my chest aren't too exciting. "Boys, no need to fight over little ol' me. I know I'm a fucking goddess and all, but puh-leeze, we are in a high-class establishment here. Dude, keep it in your pants. Like, oh my gawd."

They stop. No more material for trips down memory lane to relive painful boyhood memories of having their ass beat in the school parking lot. They crack smiles. Damn, there's enough fucked up teeth in front of me to get even the cheapest mall orthodontist a spankin' new Bemer.

"Ah, I think Sonia's just jealous of our camaraderie," Jayson uses the longest word anyone's ever heard him say out loud. He decides I want his dirty hands all over my body, and starts to tickle me.

"No tickle," I growl. "No tickle," I scream. No tickle, no tickle; baby talk in my head.

"No tickle," they both repeat, snickering, in their whiny imitation of a horror flick chick about to have her head chopped off because she committed the ultimate faux pas. Sex and horror meant the lucky had to die. A sleazy way to make a case for abstinence. All I'm worried about getting from these two is a STD, or a side-cramp from laughing too damn much as four hands find my ribs a pleasant drum.

"Stop," I squeal. "Tickling is a cruel form of torture made up by parents so they can abuse their children and get away with it.

"Wha-What? What the fuck?" John spurts out as his hands stop moving. He had to stop in order to think about his word choice, I think, squirming my way away from Jayson. He comes toward me hands outstretched, fingers writhing.

Suddenly, his attention is caught by something else. He looks over my head. Our faces are so close I could bite his cheek, rip off a piece a flesh, throw it on the ground and laugh triumphantly. "Hey, Sonia, look," he points behind me. "Did ya catch those?" Behind me is the door leading to the hall holding the bathroom. Plus I didn't have eyes in the back of my head the last time I checked, so I have no idea what the fuck he is talking about.

"Yeah, nice ones," I lie -- can't let him have the upper hand.

"Didn't think ya'd wanna miss those. Anyways, what were you sayin' 'bout a-buse."

"Wait, what-I-miss?" John asks, behind as usual.

"A huge pair of walking breasts," I answer. Turning back to Jayson, "I said if you don't stop abusing your masturbation privileges that blister on your cock is gonna fucking explode."

"Hey, who told you about that?" Jayson plays along -- hopefully. I do wonder just how serious he is about that, but I let it go.

Inserting his head by my right ear, John says loud and clear, "I love a woman who says cock!" The people at the table next to us turn and stare. I smile and tip my head, don't I look cute?

"Yeah, only the good ones use cock. Oh and twat too." Jayson adds.

"As opposed to the bad ones, the ones you won't fuck," I say, but John is already talking over me.

"Twat that's a great word. What about cunt?"

"Cunt's too poetic." Leave it to Jayson to say that.

"Okay, now, boys, once again I have to complement you at the level of intelligence of this conversation. It's astounding to me that two geniuses like you are even allowed to live with us normal people. Next can we talk about cum shots again? That's always a fun topic two or three times a day and I think John missed our earlier discussion. Did you take notes?"

"Ya done?" Jayson asks.

John adds, "So, what do you want to talk about? Russian Literature, I suppose."

"No, tits," I say pointing at the young girl strutting in front of us.

"Damn, you're right. Nice. Do you think she'd show us," he asks.

"She's fifteen. Probably do anything for attention. Should I ask?"

"Hey, show us your tits!" He yells across the room while the girl leans over the counter returning the key to Bryan.

"Nice ass too," I say, reopening my book to some random page. It doesn't matter I'd read it all before.

"Tits 'n' ass, fixin's for a fine night at my place." Jayson starts to draw yet another grotesque Gen X caricature. If he has those images rushing through his head at a time like this, no all the time for that matter, he's one sick puppy. Maybe he draws the huge warted cocks on smacked-up emaciated transvestites holding knives and guns because he wasn't loved as a child, or maybe he's just fucked-up.

John has nothing to pretend to be occupied with, so he lights an American Spirit and inhales real slow, so I can hear the crackle of tobacco and the sizzle of my hair as he leans in to tell me something.

"What the fuck?" I jump up knocking the cigarette out of his hand. The cherry flies off, and of course, lands on my sweater. "Shit, get it off my fucking sweater." We both grab at it -- Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum fight a fire. Jayson reaches over and calmly extinguishes the red-hot ember with his fingers. We stare at him, amazed, yet appalled. "On heroin much."

Jayson ignore us, so John turns to me. "Wanna go upstairs," he says with all his sexiness. Upstairs meant back to his hovel in the pay by the week hotel next door. He didn't mean for sex, which is what Jayson would mean, but rather to smoke a bowl or tow, maybe play an intense game of Scrabble.

"No, I'm driving home soon."

"She used that one on me last night," Jayson says, his southern drawl bouncing off his sketchpad.

"Except last night, I didn't have my car with me."

"Ouch," John says standing up. "That's my cue to leave the love birds alone. When you get tired of this Alabama Navy fuck, give me a page and I'll take you upstairs."

"Ya didn't ask me if I wanted to go," Jayson says honestly hurt.

"That's because you're a goddamn pot head. Besides you're not as pretty as Sonia."

"Ah, Sonia rolls into town and ya forget about me. What happened to us?"

"I don't know, you're the one playing puppy dog." With that John leaves -- leaves us in an awkward silence on the couch.

After a while, I break the dead air. "You can go on up, if you want. I'm a big girl. I can handle the couch. I'll do just fine on my own"

"That's what I'm afraid of."

"Oh yeah," I say lighting a Marlboro.

"Can I get one of those?" I hand him mine and light another.