SKIN AND SIX
"I can't really remember," he began. "My father and I always slept in the same bed and one night, I woke up, and his hands were on me. My little kid prick was as hard as a rock, and my first thought was, 'He must think I'm mom,' or something like that. And I held my breath. And then it was over. I rolled over and he left."
Skin moved away from Six, watching him and saying nothing. Six turned toward the wall.
"It's not me, you know," Skin said.
"I know," Six said.
"It's not you, either," Skin said. He sat at the edge of the bed looking into the room.
"I know," Six said.
"It's us. We're together now—you and I."
"I know," Six said.
Skin got up to smoke. Six turned to watch his friend light up and stand naked in front of the window of his bedroom as he smoked a cigarette. The stillness of the moment took them. Skin smoked, lighting the room with the burnt orange end of nicotine, and Six watched him. They looked at each other for a while with the regret of something they never knew.
