Faster We Burn

walked down the stairs it wouldn’t be Katie.
    It wasn’t.
    Allan leaned on my porch, holding a bottle of scotch and two cups.
    “Figured you could use it,” he said with a lopsided grin.
    “I told you, I’m not feeling that great. I don’t think scotch is going to help that situation.”
    “You know, food poisoning is often code for: I got dumped.” He shoved his way past me and jogged up the stairs. Nothing I could do to stop him, so I closed the door and followed him.
    “I didn’t get dumped.”
    “The Stryker I know wouldn’t let anything get in the way of Band. Except a girl.” He set the cups down and poured a little into each, holding one out to me. “I don’t need the details, but I figured you could use a friend and a drink. So here I am.”
    I hesitated, but took the cup from him and took a sip. Damn. This was good stuff. Allan might be poor as shit, but he always found money for good alcohol.
    “I’m not going to get drunk and spill all my feelings,” I said, savoring the sweet burn.
    “Who am I, Oprah? I don’t want to know your feelings. But if you feel the need to share them with me, I’m your man, buddy.” He banged his hand on my back and went to make himself comfortable on the couch.
    “We’re both unlucky in love, man. I’m crazy about a girl who doesn’t like penises and you’re in love with a girl who is completely, totally and utterly out of your league.”
    “Out of my league?”
    Allan looked up from the couch.
    “Uh, yeah. Like, you two aren’t even on the same planet.”
    I sat down next to him. “At least she’s interested in my anatomy.”
    “Ouch, burn.” He held his heart as if I’d stabbed him. I took another sip and sat down next to him on the couch.
    “You’ll live.”
    Allan and I sat in silence, drinking and wallowing. I’d never wallowed about a girl before. It felt like shit.
    He poured more scotch and I started to feel the effect.
    “Do you really think she’s out of my league?” I said.
    “Well, yeah. Katie is like…Miss America and you’re…you.”
    “Thanks, Allan that really clears things up.”
    “No, no, that came out wrong. It’s not that she’s better than you; it’s just that you’re not the kind of guy a girl like her would go for. She goes for football players and guys with money and guys with clean criminal records.”
    “Wow, Allan. You’ve managed to insult both her and me all at once. Thanks, that was so helpful.” I patted his leg. He threw his head back in frustration.
    “Shit. You know I’m bad at this. I told you I wasn’t Oprah. But you know what I mean, right?”
    I did. I knew just what he was saying. It was what everyone said when I left the room. It was the reason Katie’s mother hadn’t wanted me to stay. I would contaminate her pure daughter.
    If only she knew that her pure daughter was the one who fucked so many times.
    I nodded and swallowed another mouthful of the scotch. Tonight was a night for getting drunk. Blessedly, mind-numblingly drunk.
    So I did.
     
    ***
     
    Right around the time Allan started crying about how much he loved Zoey, I decided to call him a cab. It was a miracle I could even dial the number on my phone. He nearly fell down the stairs, and I wasn’t much better, but I got him inside and gave the guy the address, slurring my way through it.
    “I’ve taken a lot of drunk directions, kid,” he said and I shut the door as Allan started wailing again.
    I crawled all the way back up the stairs and collapsed on my couch. Allan had left the bottle of scotch, so I poured myself another drink. The bottle nearly slipped from my hands, but I caught it in time. My reflexes weren’t drunk enough yet.
    A knock made me look up. Probably Allan. He’d been thrown out of more than one cab before.
    I stumbled to my feet and went to my door to find someone standing there, but it wasn’t Allan.
    “Your front door was open,” she said, giving me the once over.
    “Ric.” This time she had a thin t-shirt on, thin enough for me to see her nipples, under a leather jacket, with a pair of jeans that were so ripped they could hardly be called pants. There was one particular rip on her thigh that showed a pair of black lace panties.
    “Looks like you’ve had a rough night.” She strolled in and spun around to face me. “So I heard you and the pink bitch are on the outs.”
    “Don’t call her that,” I said, walking past her, but I misjudged how close she was and our shoulders