010614 #bushmill We stop at an exit ramp on the westbound side of some Interstate. There's a cluster of the usual gas stations and fast food. One thing I can think of that would really equalize this situation, and that's if I felt more like a lion and less like a bunny. So while they're in the store getting snacks and paying for the gas—Pete's loaded, it turns out—I go around back to the grubby restrooms, make sure the door's locked, and fiddle around with the plastic baggie in my breast pocket. I roll a smoke, ::brown and pungent on one end, green and prickly on the other::, and lean back on the toilet seat and inhale deeply. The fluorescent light above the greasy mirror starts to buzz louder. Graffiti starts to mean something. I start to get a really nice hard-on, thinking about Mel's teeth when she smiles, and Pete's rough neck when he turns his head to listen to her or to say something. That act, that pushing out and taking in of words, is erotic, and I can't wait to watch and listen to them do it some more. But first, another hit.