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propped my elbow to rest my head in my hand. “Let’s focus less on what’s my fault and go back to your complaints about Vikki,” I said.
    “ Ugh, Vikki. Six so-borings! All she talks about is that dog, I swear to God. She got a dog, did you know that?”
    “No.”
    “Some kind of shit-zu. Looks like someone took a pretty dog and melted it down. Named it Barksy. Like she’s two. Now, what kind of grown-up names a dog Barksy? Honestly. And she can’t stop going on about the damn thing. ‘Barksy jumped up on my bed. Barksy ate a carrot. Barksy got stuck in the pantry.’ I wanna be like, ‘Vikki. Just have a baby. I will steal one for you, if I have to, just to make you shut the hell up.’ She is turning into one crazy woman, Danny. I can’t take it. Okay, so she’s got raisiny ovaries. Lots of people have problems. Just fix it.”
    One had to be careful in telling Smidge personal information, as she’d find a way to fit it into one of her rants like a piece of trivia. Fun facts everyone knows, no big deal. I’d think Vikki would prefer I wasn’t privy to the workings or nonworkings of her reproductive system, but to Smidge, if it were really a secret, she wouldn’t know about it. In her mind, if you’re talking about it to someone, obviously you don’t mind someone else knowing.
    “Smidge,” I gently scolded.
    “What? You’ve got the ovaries of a Golden Girl, too, but at least you put them to use most nights. Can’t wait to find out which derelict will end up being your baby’s daddy.”
    With my right thumb and forefinger, I reached out to the front of Smidge’s tank top and flicked the very tip of her tiny nipple. She instantly doubled over, howling and laughing, clutching her chest.
    “I earned that.”
    “Yes, you did.”
    “ Sooooooooo. To numb the pain of Vikki’s dogologue, I started drinking. The next thing I know I have had a bottle of wine. And a half .”
    That’s usually an alarming amount of wine to anyone else the size of Smidge, but my friend never met a blood alcohol content she couldn’t handle. I’d seen her drink marines under the table. Marines at a bachelor party. In a strip club. In Pat-pong, Thailand.
    Smidge fiddled with her sunglasses as she talked, playing with the hinge in a way that was definitely going to cause them to break. “And it’s fine, all that wine,” she said, “because Jenny’s at her friend’s house for the night, and Henry’s out with Tucker, and I suddenly realize that all I want to do is get into bed and watch an old movie. Without Vikki. I just want my bed and some Turner Classic Movies. I start wanting it so bad I’m practically salivating. So I’m cleaning up, doing the dishes. Washin’ up a little hint, you know? I put on my pajamas , trying to give some clues. The ones with all the happy tacos on them? Those are pants that say, ‘I am going to bed. ’ But this girl’s just standing in my kitchen, chatting away. So now I’m fixing to kill this woman who thinks I actually want to hear about her dog-baby, because she will not take the hint ! Crap. I just broke my sunglasses.”
    Smidge leaned forward to scroll through the radio stations, unable to find one that wasn’t pure static. She banged the knob with the palm of her hand, silencing it. Then she turned her attention to the remaining sips of her cherry limeade. She slid the plastic straw through the lid, causing a haunting sound that made my spine shiver. Yanking off the lid, shetipped her head back to pour the last sweet drops onto her tongue. Rooting for the maraschino cherry at the bottom, she jammed the straw back into the cup and hacked at the packed shaved ice.
    “Soooooo,” she continued. “Vikki finally goes home, and I get into bed and realize, now that she’s gone, I should celebrate. With a drink!”
    “Oh, dear.”
    “‘Oh, dear’ is right,” Smidge said, “because dumb Vikki made me drink the last of my wine before she left. I had to drive my bike over to