She sat there, social as a dead butterfly, bending beer bottle caps in half.
“Why are you doing that?” I asked.
She paused, ruminated over the words “Miller High Life,” then responded.
“When I can’t do this anymore, I will hang myself.”
“What if you break your fingers?” I said, smirking.
“Then, it will be a loose knot,” she replied, without humor.
I laughed–tried to. I picked up a cap; gave it a squeeze.
“Ouch.” It dropped. We both looked at it, she looked up at me.
I frowned. “I’m not going to hang myself!”
She shrugged, looking rather disappointed.