It was hot in the lounge.
Pick, pick, pick… ah, skin in a strip that exposed flesh on her leg. Amazing, Anna thought, so beautiful.
“I do that too,” called Joel from the worn sofa across the room. “I like it across my wrists.”
“It’s not the same thing,” Anna replied. “I’m not trying to, like, kill myself or anything. It just feels so good.”
Joel considered this. “I guess I’m not either. ‘Why?’ they ask. I just say ‘whatever’. And they put me here.”