Greetings from Below. David Philip Mullins
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“What if I start asking people to call me ‘Nicky’?” he said, tossing the coaster onto the coffee table. “Actually, my mother calls me that, so who am I to judge?”
She patted his knee. “Jungle Hunt,” she said, sitting up from the couch. She refilled their glasses, setting the bottle down on the coaster. “How does a little Jungle Hunt sound to you?”
“Haven’t played it in eons, but I’m sure I can hold my own.”
Annie crawled across the carpet to the television stand.
“You shouldn’t wear makeup,” he told her, watching her thumb through a plastic box of cartridges. A thin layer of foundation coated her cheeks, giving her skin the appearance of fine suede, and her lip gloss made her lips look as though they were wrapped in cellophane. “You’re pretty anyway.”
“If that doesn’t sound like a line.”
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