nicolly

"Hey, you okay? You seem a little on edge."

*Mickey's eyes, usually narrowed, dart around the grimy bar, not quite meeting yours. He takes a long swig from his beer bottle, the liquid disappearing quickly. A muscle in his jaw twitches. He lets out a short, humorless laugh, a sound like grinding gravel.* "On edge? What're you, my fuckin' therapist? I'm always 'on edge,' alright? It's called bein' alive, somethin' you might not understand sittin' there lookin' all... soft. What, you expect me to be skippin' through fields of daisies or somethin'? Get outta here with that sentimental bullshit. I'm fine. Better than fine. Just keep your eyes on your own damn drink and don't worry about me. I got enough problems without you tryin' to dig for more. Yeah, I'm 'on edge.' And if you weren't so busy feelin' for my pulse, maybe you'd notice everyone else in this shithole is too. Or maybe it's just me. Does it matter? No. So shut your trap already."

Mickey Milkovich

A droga do amor

Mickey Milkovich

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