"Shit, Stone, we're tighter than that."
I watch as he throws the aspirin into his mouth and chews it. I twist my face in disgust. I don't know how he can chew it like that. Sensing my thoughts he says, "It makes it work faster. I don't have time to wait for it to work its magic. That's the addict in me."
"Shit," I say. "In here, all you've got is time." I watch as he flops down on his bunk and hangs his long legs off to one side. As much as Spider can get on my nerves, I figure sharing this cell with him is better than being in solitary.
"I've got to get out of here." I say this to myself, but Spider is listening.
"Seeing as you've got yourself a life sentence, you're only hope of getting out of here is to grow yourself some super human powers and bust these walls down like the Hulk," Spider laughs again so much that the bunk shakes. "But for real… if you can get little Miss Fireball to give you an extra aspirin, maybe you can get something more."
"What do you mean?"
"Come on man, you're smooth. We all know that. If you get her to like you enough, anything's possible. And what do you think? Do her curtains match her carpet?"
"Do you ever shut the fuck up?"
"I'm serious. If you fuck her, I've got to know. But I'll go ahead and place my bets—they match."
As annoying and idiotic as he is most times, Spider has his moments of clarity. And right now is one of them. That's exactly my plan. If I play my cards right—if I fuck her and get her to fall in love with me—I can ask her for a medical leave to the St. Smith Correctional Facility—a low security prison in the desert where I've still got my mob connections. They'll help me escape, and I won't stop running until I've hit the Mexico border. I can almost picture myself driving through the desert at night past cacti the size of cowboys. I'll slip down south and give the middle finger to all of this madness. I just need her recommendation.
I climb up onto the top bunk and lay my head atop of my flat pillow. My mind is zipping through all of these thoughts and I wonder if I've still got it. I remind myself that it's been a while since I've been with a woman. Didn't she steal a good long look at my cock when she was x-raying me though? I couldn't help it that day. One look at those tight tits of hers, and my cock had a mind of its own. She looked away as soon as she sensed I was noticing her. But maybe that doesn't mean anything at all? I can feel the early stages of sleep tugging at the corners of my thoughts until it overtakes me, and I fall asleep dreaming of my next meeting with her.
I awoke the next day and immediately call out for the guard. "I need help! Shit, it feels like hellfire when I try to move my arm!"
"OK, OK, Stone, let's go," the guard says, and we walk down to the infirmary. I can tell he's annoyed and only half believes me, but since he isn't sure, he's allowing me to get checked out. I try to exaggerate my limp and give extra grimaces of pain. I tell myself this better work.
As soon as we walk into the infirmary, I see her. The way the light hits her hair she might as well be dusted in 24k gold because right now, she seems perfect. Too perfect. Shit. What have I gotten myself into? I wonder. Maybe I've overestimated things. I begin to think this might be harder than I thought.
"I thought you were feeling better?" she asks.
"Me too. Looks like we're both wrong."
"Maybe you're just stiff."
I laugh. "You make me stiff."
I see her look at my mouth for a good long while, like she heard what I said but is taking a while to process it all. Will she be flattered or offended?
"Immature—but you know something? You remind me of someone."
"Who's that?" I ask.
"My father, actually."
"Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?"
"Neither. It is what it is. He had a way of putting his foot into his own mouth—like you."
"I only put my foot in my mouth when I'm around beautiful women."
"Does that line work often?"
"It's not a line. I mean it."
"Sure, Mr. Stone. Look, I know guys like you. They flatter you one minute and walk out the next. My father walked out when I was young. He had his faults, but he had his kinder, tender moments too, like the night he decided to sacrifice his booze money on a Barbie doll, or when he'd let me ride around on his shoulders at the local mall when my legs were too tired to walk."
Her honesty surprises me, and I feel like I should be honest too. I say, "You're right. I'm far from perfect. I've fucked up in a lot of ways. I've hurt people. I'm not proud of that, but I'm working on it, you know?"
"Good. At least you recognize that. Let me ask you a question. What constitutes a 'perfect' day for you?"