Smiths' Meat is Murder by Joe Pernice

until three in
thee
morning Friday night with SnowWhitest making promises my boy,
prom-misses,”
Ray shot back teasingly. “I think I deserve a little more than
‘That’s cool, man. Thanks.’ ”
    “You’re right, man. Sorry. Hey, can you get away right now?” I asked. “I could really use a lift.”
    “No can do, mon ami. The surviving seventy-five percent of my grandparents—possessing barely forty-five percent of their faculties—is here for Sunday dinner. And there’s a turkey in the oven nearing the end of its third trimester. I mean, who the fuck cooks a turkey in this heat? I’m sweating my balls off here.” It felt pretty good to hear his voice. He almost always made me laugh. “Why? What’s up?” he asked.
    “Ah, it’s nothing. No big deal,“ I said. I was quiet while I lit up a smoke right there in the foyer of the Super Drug. “Hey, look man, after I hang up, I’m going to trespass on a private beach, listen to the greatest album ever made one more time, have a smoke and then drown myself in the ocean. I won’t be needing those tickets where I’m going.”
    Ray laughed, “Sounds like a good time. I’m jealous.” He seemed to weigh it up in his head for a few seconds then added, “Fuck the turkey!”