Wes pulled up to the apartment building. Was this the right place? He checked a scrap of paper, then pushed it back into the snug of his jeans pocket. He carried a cold six pack in a paper bag under his arm, up the stairs, down the outdoor walkway to 206, head down like someone feeling guilty for no necessary reason. Knock, knock.
— Um, hi, I brought some beer.
— Oh, hi Wes, come in, don’t let all the air conditioning out — she singsonged.
Cathy was a waitress. She sat next to him on the couch. They clinked sweating bottles and he took a long slug. She opened the wooden box on the coffee table and handed him a joint and lighter.
They listened to Fleetwood Mac as Cathy and Pepper went through their repertoire of tricks. The little dog jumped from the foot stool to the couch at her urging, farther and farther as she moved the foot stool back a little each time.
When they were well into their second joint and third beers, Cathy took out the new Paul Simon album and told Wes that while she didn’t really like it, she loved to get stoned and then play 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover on 45 rpm. They listened and laughed and laughed.
Cathy took off her shirt and tossed it across the room, where it landed on the lamp shade. Wes looked at her breasts. There was no denying their size and shape. There was no denying that shade of brown.