Everything else has drifted far out of reach of my auditory range, so I can only sit and listen, waiting to hear that slight tinge of Alabama in his voice. Every now and then it slips out, usually right along with a heavy dose of that down home misogyny.

Lucky Strike filterless drawls about tits, hoping they were barely over "ate-tin". Chests bounce by Jayson's eyes red-hot sonar. "Gotta see their nipples. Ya never know 'til ya see the nipples."

"Yeah. Bryan said the same thing," I say watching the same mounds, barely constrained by a tight green knit sweater. It's true Bryan had said that, but I only told Jayson so he wouldn't feel so goddamn special for pointing out the obvious. "She's only like fifteen -- used a high-school ID to get the bathroom key."

"Fiftin. Damn that's when the tits are still good."

"Uh-huh." I go back to concentrating on the book I've been trying to read all week. Tales of hitmen. Murder for hire. John Gotti's been convicted and the Mafia's dead or too busy running their garbage trucks. Jayson doesn't care that my childhood fantasy has been ruined anymore than he cares who he fucks after the fifth or sixth shot, but he says he's in love.

In love with a girl he doesn't even know and doesn't ask the questions to find out more. I can't decide if he's just sleazy or if he really does care. I'll tell him my last name when I figure that last one out.