"What I want to know, dude, is how you scored Jamia," Pete says to him. "Because she is hot like burning, man, fucking burning.“
"I fucking know," says Frank. He still can't make it through the shift without a cigarette, but he's down to four, and that's not bad considering he used to do a pack or two a day, easily. And he switched to lights. "I met her at a Converge show."
"No shit?" Pete takes a giant bite out of the sandwich Frank just made him. Chicken parm, without the cheese.
("Vegan cheese smells like feet, and is disgusting," Pete says.
"But without the cheese, it's not parm," protests Frank.
"So from now on I'll ask for chicken on a parm roll with the parm sauce! Ha!")
"Swear. We were in the pit, and this big dude shoved her, and she almost fell, but I caught her. And you know—I mean, it's what you do for anyone, but it's different when it's a girl."
Pete hums agreement, chewing.
"I was totally scared she'd fucking deck me or something, because ... well, you've seen her. But, seriously, she looked up and she was the fucking most gorgeous girl I'd ever seen in my life. That was all I wanted, from, like, that moment on, you know? All I wanted was her. And when she smiled at me, it was like my heart broke into a million pieces in my chest."
"That's fucking poetry, dude," says Pete around a giant mouthful of TVP chicken and Frank's mom's sauce.
"Yeah, she's fucking poetry," says Frank. He takes a long drag on his cigarette. He remembers that day like it was yesterday—no, better than yesterday. It is the clearest fucking day of his life. "And before Converge went on, we totally made out, and it was like fucking coming my brains out just from kissing, I swear to God."