Outside, the October air clears my head. I will walk home. I will collect all my thoughts along the way. Once there, I will take a hot shower. Then I’ll be ready to face this thing on my cheek, and Malcolm, and all the questions I have about last night.
The red convertible at the end of the walk stops this line of thought. Malcolm leans against the door, his normally silky hair rumpled, dress shirt torn and stained. The knees of his trousers are embedded with grime. If he crawled through a sewer he wouldn’t look any worse.
“Were you in a fight?” I ask.
“It only feels like it.”
“I don’t understand.” I mean this in every way possible. I don’t understand what he said. I don’t understand what happened last night. I don’t understand him.
“After I couldn’t find you,” he says, “I decided I’d
