I hated her then. I didn't want to be
a musician anymore. I wanted to be a techno-artist or something.
It's my parent's fuckin' fault, my liberal upbringing. I don't
know. Or maybe something else. They're here now. Better late than
never, right? Hey, lucky me, I can call them by their first
names, but I could never call them Mom and Dad. That's what I
wanted. Rick and Jeannette. No. It's not their fault. What am I
saying? I don't even know who I am."
She turned her head away from him and rested. She lay still for a
while, and when he thought she was asleep he turned to go.
"Stop," she said in a rasp. "We're not done." She was sitting up.
Her eyes were dry now, awake yet unalive. "We're gonna make a
deal. You've got a baby to take care of now, Peter. I can't do
it. Not right now, at least. I can't even piss on my own. I have
to push a button to get one of them to help me. How the hell'm I
gonna take care of a baby? I can't even name the thing. That's
your call, too. You get to call all the shots, Peter. Shoot,
bang, bang, I'm almost dead. You're holding the gun, man. Don't
go shootin' your own head, though. Oh, don't worry, I'll get
better - it's the only way I'll get you. Get back at you is what
I mean. You got a cigarette?"
He shook his head.
She made a disgusted face at him and waved her hand, scratching
her fingers through her hair.
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