Snippet:
L.A. was boiling in late summer. Dave turned a deep brown and Matt slowly blushed crimson, swearing up a storm as the first few burns of August peeled away his skin, leaving behind a darker gold. Matt fell in love with the heat, as tortured as he was by it, laid to rest on the cool bathroom floor in the mid-afternoon when the sun was at its worst.
“I miss Chicago,” he’d whisper, feet walking up the walls, bent neatly in half against the linoleum. Dave kept the ice stocked up for days like these, where he could press handfuls of chips against Matt’s throat, chest, and stomach, letting water pool down by his hips.
“No,” he’d answer, “No you don’t.”