“I can’t believe The Rotten Peach has an advice column,” I say. We’re walking, we’re still looking at the magazine, searching through its contents for any clues as to what the question might actually be referring to. “And by the looks of it… it’s an ironic advice column?”
“What does that even mean?” Karina asks.
“It only answers bad questions, and only with bad answers.”
“That’s so pretentious.”
It wasn’t too long in the past when The Rotten Peach was a staple in Atlanta’s counter-culture scene. When the world wide web first launched, they had their own website to go along with the print magazine, long before anyone else had thought to do the same. When robots entered the scene, they stuck steadfastly to human delivery girls. They covered the increasing gang violence in Atlanta with an empathetic eye for the disaffected youths sucked into the world of organized tribalistic crime. They’ve won twice as many Pulitzers as the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, which is to say they’ve won four.
Horrible mistake to wear a jacket. It’s almost June and I’m wearing a friggin’ jacket. My skin is on fire because this is what happens literally every year in Atlanta. I’m a damned fool.
Karina, walking beside me in a sensible off-shoulder top and miniskirt, is like a walking oasis. How someone can stay so cool in such blazing weather?
“How much further are we…” I moan.
Moving day for Kobi Gibson.
Karina arrives at my apartment doorstep, done with her morning shift at work and just in time to help us carry Kobi’s boxes down six flights of stairs. She’s come prepared, too; she’s wearing a loose-fitting T-shirt and some gym shorts, just the kind of clothes to change out of once we’re finished. Because we’ve got a long day ahead of us, even after this.