Called a cab, too, and went home alone.
I danced by myself under the shiny ball, danced out the poisons, danced through to my brain, woke myself up and found my life.
Back inside, I drank one shot of mescal straight down, the one with the worm. Onlookers gawked: “Now you’ll live forever,” someone said.
I joined them in the big black car and watched.
He had just a taste, to be polite.
My friend’s eyes got very bright and I experienced an epiphany.
One night a woman friend of mine joined us for drinks. He saw something in her he never saw in me. A certain light in her eyes, maybe.
It was the Disco era. Donna Summers sang “Let’s Dance” and we did, under that shiny silver ball. It was deliciously mindless.
We rode together in his big black Mercedes. Photos of incongruous twin Yorkies hung over the mirror like fuzzy dice.
There were dinners in chi chi Buckhead.
- Two dozen roses in tropical colors.
- A set of Matryoshka dolls.
- Five porcelain pandas — mama, papa, brother, sister, and a cute, cold baby.
- A small round Palech miniature, a Russian lacquered box painted by the artist using a wolf’s tooth. He said.
A charming, oddly impersonal lover sent unusual gifts to my office.
Eons ago, in Hotlanta, I was dressed for success.