Katie swore to God she called me an asshole, but I heard her, she
called me an animal, fucking animal, then turned around and walked on
glass.
A beer bottle, I recall, with a shallow puddle of backwash and
cigarette butts bobbing in the bottom, broken across the bridge of a
wino’s nose at 3:33
on a damp Saturday morning in early March.
The nurse in the free clinic extracted a thick green shard, clearly
from a Mickey’s, then sewed seventeen stitches into the ball of her
right foot. "Heineken", Katie said with a smile, rattling the glass in
a plastic medical cup, "yummy".
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