Janey’s voice became higher and more sarcastic-sounding the more we talked, though everything he said seemed strangely serious. I kept trying to make fun of people we both knew. I make fun of people a lot when I am drunk. Janey Smith kept correcting me, saying, oh, he’s a nice person. His voice sounded nasal and desperate. It made me feel bitchy.

I made fun of myself too, to test him. I said things like, I know I’m not pretty.

You’re pretty, he said. You are gorgeous.

I have all these zits on my shoulder, I said.

Do you really? He said. Let me see them. I love acne.

I showed him my shoulder. I felt his breath quicken behind me. Whoa, you really like acne? I said.

Yeah, he said, and he paused for a second. Actually, I kind of want to pop your zits.

I listened to Janey Smith breathe for a moment and thought that his breathing was sexy. I thought of his long skinny hands on my shoulder and wanted to cry.

Dude, no way, I said as I adjusted my collar. I’m sorry, but that’s fucking gross.