She has issues.

Just a happy little TGIF gift, an excerpt from the last batch of stuff for Hidden Things:

“What’s with the open window?”

“You smell like the parts of the coastline where birds have died.”
He shrugged. “Not a lot of bathing opportunities in my simple life.” He pulled out a mangled but mostly intact cigar from an inner pocket and pointed at a passing road sign. “Turn here. Mind if I smoke since we’re gonna die of pneumonia anyway?”
“Could you just shoot yourself in the chest instead?” she said without rancor, taking the exit he’d indicated. “I can tear your trachea out with my bare hands and rub asphalt on your tongue afterwards if that would help you get the buzz. Maybe I could leave your body lying on a pile of burning tires.”
He simply stared at her, then tucked the cigar away. “You have issues. You know this?”
“It’s been mentioned before,” she muttered.

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