“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