“Maybe after this,” I say, and nod to my beer.
“Such a doll,” she says with a wink.
This is the girl who, on our third date, excused herself to the ladies’ room and vanished for twenty minutes. I found her in a bathroom stall, sniffling and powdered with some fashion guy named Kieran’s arm around her waist. On the polished tile floor was a rolled-up Abraham Lincoln.
“Oh, don’t worry dollboy,” she assured me then, with a kiss on the nose. “It’s not what it looks like. We were just snorting coke.” I think it was right there that I fell in love with her.
This was back at club Theta.
This was back when I still had a checking account.
This was back when I still had a future.
© 2003 Karim Pearson