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The girl was something else in her blue denim jeans. The Filipina version of J-Lo, except this girl could dance. She let me follow her from the club back to her place after I promised not to pull any ‘gay shit’ on her. She lived in Jersey Shitty, up in the Heights. I told her I was jealous of her public housing. The only thing was that all the furniture was busted. She and her friends got a good laugh out of watching my ass slide through the bottom of a folding chair. What did I care? I had nothing to prove. According to her I was already unlovable. I was just going to hang around until she made me believe it too. We listened to a DJ CLUE mix tape and ate peanut butter out of the jar with our fingers. The shine in her eyes made me wish I still smoked. It was the same shine as the boy next to her, the one who cradled her brown bare feet in his lap and claimed to be her cousin. The dutch made its way around for the second time. She demanded to know why I didn’t smoke so I told her I only had one lung. She believed it on account of my missing fingers, but it still pissed her off. She took a pink Tupperware bowl out of the fridge that was filled with dark brown water. It’s liquid chocolate, she said, from Manila, and then laughed when I had a sip (what a thing it was to make her laugh) because it was really pig’s blood.

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