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My head spins.
I take a step back.
Did I seriously just compare my love for Skylar with a creepy dude’s obsession with Zak?
“Y-Yeah, I guess,” the guy confesses nervously. “Something like that. Except for maybe the frat part. W-Was that a … a metaphor …?”
I glare at him. “I suck at metaphors.” I’m on him at once, gripping his shirt and putting my face in front of his. “You realize Zak’s an illusion, right?”
His big blank eyes are his answer.
“He doesn’t exist,” I state, spelling it out. “Zak, or the notion of what you think Zak is, is just some big, elaborate fantasy you’ve built up in your head. Beyond the beauty on that stage, there’s a human being who is likely nothing like the muscle demigod you fap to at night. He’s got dreams. He’s got a life. He might be boring, or nerdy, or—for all we know—straight. The point is, you don’t know him.”
I don’t want to look to confirm it, but I think I might have been wrong about the shitting-his-pants bit; I think he’s pissing himself instead.
“I’ll tell you what. I’ll make you a deal. Do you want to make a deal?”
He blinks. “D-Deal? What deal?”
“Forget Zak. Let my words of wisdom sink in. Find someone in the real world. Go on a fucking actual date. Never come back to Aubergines. And I won’t call the fucking cops. I’m here just about every night, and if I see you here again, I swear, I’ll make you suck Larry off for penance. Got it?”
He squints at that last part, confused. “Who?”
I don’t even know why that part came out. I’m gonna blame the alcohol. Or the street vendor dog I downed. “Never mind. You gonna fuck off now?”
He nods so quickly, his head might fall off.
I let go of his shirt, and the guy scurries away. “And I’m serious about that finding someone in the real world to date!” I shout as his scuffling footsteps carry him out of sight. Soon, all that surrounds me is the ringing silence of the empty dressing room.
I peer down at the toppled backpack and all of Zak’s things on the ground.
“This place needs some better security,” I state prosaically to the empty room.
Or maybe I say it slurred.
I don’t know.
For the next five minutes—and while my head spins from a definitively killed buzz—I thrust all of Zak’s things into his backpack where they belong. Among his stuff (not that I’m taking inventory) is a bunch of colorful thongs, a plain white t-shirt, and a paperback book called The Inventor with a strange geometric shape on its cover.
Just before I zip the backpack closed, I notice a tiny charm wedged inside between his shirt and the book—a golden lion inscribed with “PAYTEN”.
Is that “Payten” a name? Or is it “pay ten”, like a reference to a dancer’s tip?
“Thanks, man.”
I look up. Standing at the entrance to the bathroom area is the slender, toned form of Zak in just a pair of royal blue bikini briefs. He holds a pair of pants and a shirt by his side, which I guess he stripped off on stage. A black cap presses all his hair down flat, his forehead glossy from sweat.
“For what?” I mutter belatedly.
“I saw you dealt with my … ‘fan’. Dunno if we should dignify him with that title.” Zak chuckles to himself, then comes up to me as I rise to my feet. He takes the backpack from me. “I appreciate it.”
“No prob. Connor mentioned something about a stalker you were dealing with. I saw the guy slip back here, and …” I round on Zak suddenly. “The hell kind of security does Larry hire here, anyway? How can some rando-guy make it all the way back here and get to your personal stuff?”
Zak—who appears cool-mannered and entirely unfazed by this whole thing—just shrugs and says, “Usually there’s at least one or two of us back here, but tonight we all had a group routine on stage. I guess lesson learned, huh? Besides …” He shoves his backpack into a nearby locker, then shuts the door. “My fault for leaving my shit out in the open. That Connor roomie of yours … He’s alright.”
I find myself smiling. “Yeah, he is.” Perhaps in my drunkenness, I can’t refrain from letting the question fly out of my mouth. “Who’s Payten?”
Zak’s smile fades.
Uh oh. I struck a nerve.
“Sorry,” I mutter, dropping the question. “I’m kinda wasted. I’m not gonna remember any of this in the morning, anyway.”
“Don’t worry about it, man.” Zak gives me a wink, at once excusing his brief moment of stiffness at my questioning, then proceeds to fish through the costume rack in search of something. Deciding my purpose here is fulfilled—and maybe Zak needs some space to get ready for his next show—I excuse myself from the room, narrowly dodging the door as I almost walk straight into it.
