"She broke up with me," you explain. The words hold no real value to you. They should be sad, but they're natural. To be expected. You're seventeen and unphased.
The sun tilts like streamers of gold through the leaves of the trees above. The sun's going down, and the breeze is crisp. It's a nice day to be outside. A nice day to be chilling on a Central Park bench with your consultant. The man beside you is one of your best friends. He's the only one you talk truthfully with, and maybe that makes him your only friend.
"The fancy one.. the Parisian?" He passes the bottle of scotch back into your hand. People walking by stare, alarmed at the sight of you -- a kid -- drinking openly with someone who is quite obviously a hobo. He smells, but he's good company.
"Yeah," you say on a sip.
The man scratches his mangy chin with thought. Pulling a long taste from the bottle and gnashing his remaining teeth with relish. "Weren't you sleeping with her mother?"
You smile, a little drunk. Warmed by the recollection, dropping your head back so your double-vision can take in the sky. "Oh yeah."