Page 39 of Such Sharp Teeth

“Hi.”

Everything is sweating. I think my shins are sweating.

They are. My shins are sweating. These jeans are damp.

“I’ll get my shoes,” I say, shuffling to the laundry room to grab my heels. I stumble as I put them on, all my grace gone from me.

When I walk back to the front door, Scarlett sports a smug grin. Because she can tell. She knows.

I’m a mess.

Ian stands, and the disruption of pets really pisses off Reaper, who, rightfully in this case, takes it out on me. He growls at me, bares his teeth.

“All right, all right, I’m going,” I say. I turn to Ian. “Ready?”

He nods, holds the door open for me.

“Have fun,” Scarlett says, kicking my heel.

I look back at her before leaving, and she’s smiling, but her eyes are wet. They tug at something inside me, and suddenly I don’t want to leave her.

But then Reaper barks at me. I throw up the peace sign and step outside.

Ian parked in the street, and as we cross the yard, there are a few seconds of nothing before he asks me, “Where’s the bottle?”

I look at him. He’s serious. “I thought you were trying to be clever. I didn’t think you actually wanted it back.”

“Did you recycle it at least?”

“No. I smashed it and then threw all of the broken glass on public playgrounds.”

“Oh, yeah?” he asks, opening the car door for me.

“Yeah. Then I went to the beach and shanked a few dolphins.”

“Did you shout, ‘Fuck the planet!’ while you were doing it?”

“Of course,” I say.

He laughs, closing my door and coming around the front of the car. It’s a sedan, and it’s too small for him. He makes it look like a clown car.

On the way to the bowling alley, we listen to music and don’t talk much, and that’s fine. I try to think back to high school, if he ever picked me up, if I’ve ever been alone in the car with him before. I guess he was dating Kelly by the time we could drive.

In the parking lot, he pops the trunk and procures a pair of bowling shoes.

He doesn’t say anything, and I don’t say anything. There are no comments to be made about the shoes, about the fact that he owns his own bowling shoes, which he apparently keeps in the trunk of his car. There are many comments that could be made, but none of them are. I don’t really feel like making fun of him. I actually find it kind of endearing that he’s got a pair of bowling shoes in his trunk, and that he doesn’t feel the need to offer me any explanation.

When we get inside, I’m surprised and delighted by the griminess of the place. It’s got tacky eighties decor and fluorescent lighting and smells like feet. It’s authentic. All the bowling alleys in the city are dark and posh and have exposed brick and serve cocktails and fish tacos. Here, you can get pitchers of beer, hot dogs, soft pretzels, nachos, cheese fries, and probably a staph infection.

I get my shoes and we’re assigned our lane. It’s one of the good lanes against the wall, which I guess doesn’t really matter because the place is empty.

I sit and take off my heels, then put on my wonderfully ugly bowling shoes.

Ian’s busy punching our names into the computer.

“I’m gonna get us beer,” I say.

I limp over to the bar, the bowling shoes pinching my feet. I order us a five-dollar pitcher of some very pale, very shitty-looking beer. As I’m walking back with the pitcher, trying my best not to spill it as it overflows with foam, I glance up and take in the image of him. This view of his back.