Nico’s been wound very tightly lately. Her head hurts. So she’s drinking in the middle of the day. She doesn’t sulk, she just looks faraway. Marie doesn’t try to get her to talk. That’s fine. Nico is happy not bothering her. But also a little jealous. She doesn’t know what to make of The Boys.
The wood seats are soft and warm. There’s an air of slightly stick dampness to them, the sweat and the sunlight from outside is seeping in the wood and also Marie and Nico and the boys. The moisture comes pouring out of everything in Yerba Buena, and they’re finally running out. Soon they’ll be no water left to quench this thirst. What fun venus will have then.
Nico drinks and drapes herself over Marie. Maybe she likes The Boys. She loves that none of her life’s pathetic drama registers for them. They’re loud and clever. They hate delightfully. They love tearfully. They’re a constant riot. They don’t let anyone but the ones in front of them have a moment of piece. They’re like being in the eye of a constant storm she takes no responsibility. Nico can say something quiet and dry twice an hour and they holler with laughter. They fill the vast space of Nico’s annoyance with mockery of everything that’s making her mad. She loves that everyone else in the bar hates them. She’s thriving on the way they piss off the world. Seeing their smugness melt into disgust is so validating. They don’t deserve the right to look at us with pity, and The Boys know it. To The Boys, cheers Nico, and everyone howls with her.