Page 171 of I Can't Even Think Straight

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The fist-shaped handle

of Matt’s afro comb is half out

of his back right pocket.

“I don’t care,” Matt mumbles into my chest again.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

I laugh.

“Come on, Matt.”

I pickpocket Matt’s afro comb.

I wait for a reaction

but it doesn’t come.

I poke his ribs with its metal tines.

No reaction. Nothing at all.

“Come on, Matt,” I repeat.

“You don’t have to worry.

I’m not on my deathbed.

I’m just a bit battered and bruised.”

Matt sits up slowly

with a stern look on his face

that becomes more pleading

with each passing second.

Matt wants me to read his mind,

but I’ve given up trying.

I wipe my eyes with my used tissue.

“There’s a box of tissues

on the desk,” I say.

He doesn’t break eye contact.

His face isn’t as wet as I’d expect.

His tears are on my chest.

There’s a wet patch

on the left side of my chest,

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