Truth
“Well, what’s most important?” Xana asked me.
“Hell if I know.” I answered with a kick to a crumpled Pepsi can.
“Come on Craig,” she looked at me. “Honestly.”
I looked away from her, at the street lamp, the curb, her bare shoulder, her spaghetti strap falling askew.
“Come on, your life depends on it.” She cocked her fingers into a gun shape, pointing it at my head.
“Truth,” I asked.
“Always,” she nodded, lowered the gun, but still keeping it pointed at me.
“You.”
She giggled. “Am I?”
I shrugged. “You tell me.”
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