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“No, that’s all right. I have people,” I shrug.
I’m lying. Apparently lying is a thing I can do.
“You do? Like whom?” he continues, shifting even closer.
I refuse to move. If he thinks that he is going to just inch over here bit by bit until he is on top of me, I am going to make him do just that. I’m not going to participate in this “make the little art student run away so I can chase her” game.
“Ron. You know him?” I ask innocently.
He purses his lips. Who is Ron? No idea. It looks like he is making some kind of connection though. I just figured that there had to be a well-known “Ron” somewhere. Lucky guess.
“Okay, all three of us!” Seattle announces, flinging herself across Ansel’s shoulder with her cell phone held over our heads.
The LED flash leaves spots in front of my eyes. I stuck out my tongue on purpose. Maybe she can crop me out.
The second drink goes down really fast. Quite fast. My stomach is burning and I remember I haven’t eaten anything since before my first class at eight-thirty this morning. I should go slower. I should at least ask for the next drink to be on the rocks, so I can stall by chewing the ice for a while.
But suddenly a third drink is in front of me. Ansel leans forward, more than he really has to, so he can pull it toward me.
“You know what, maybe I should eat something,” I mumble. “Seattle? How about some shrimp and grits? That sounds amazing.”
Immediately, my stomach grumbles in response. Now all I can think about are shrimp and grits. Stuffed peppers. My stomach does flip-flops. Oh my God. I better eat soon.
The bar interior is bathed momentarily in light as the exterior door opens. I can hear someone dragging the stone doorstop across the concrete stoop.
For a moment, a figure is silhouetted by the light, pausing, then it starts to come toward us. I can barely make out what’s happening, and then the smell hits me.
“Just in time,” Ansel chuckles. “I think our little Picasso was getting a bit peckish.”
I can’t stand Picasso. Wow, Ansel knows the wrong thing to say every time. It’s practically a kind of genius.
The aroma practically chokes me. The delivery guys sets three paper parcels on the table and collects a handful of cash from Ansel.
“I hope you like what I selected for you,” Ansel smirks.
Seattle picks open one of the bags with just her fingertips and slides out a tray covered in aluminum foil. Delicately, she removes the cover, releasing a cloud of fragrant steam.
I can’t even talk. My whole mouth is suddenly filled with saliva. Trying not to look too eager, I take the tray when she pushes it toward me, thrilled beyond measure at the sight in front of me. Shrimp, grits, empanadas. Little skewers of dark, charred meat. A pile of multicolored beans and pickled radishes.
“Oh, I think we achieved success,” Ansel purrs.
I don’t even mind. He can say what he likes now. I am famished, and this is amazing.
Is it wrong that I am basically sitting here with my obnoxious roommate and her pimp, stuffing my face with food I have no way to pay for? Drinking drinks I don’t have the cash for either? I didn’t even bring my wallet.
Does this make me a sugar baby like Seattle? Have I signed some kind of contract by eating these beautiful, seared scallops dripping with butter and red chilis?
If I have, it might just be worth it.
The door opens again, and I hear the clunk of something big banging against the sides. With a start, I glance up again, wondering if it might be another food-based miracle. Maybe dessert? Anything is possible at this point.
But no, it looks like it must be the band or DJ for the evening. A broad-shouldered man with a close-cropped haircut muscles a huge piece of equipment through the doorway, rolling it on a dolly toward the DJ booth.
“These scallops are justreflective,” Seattle gushes as she chews.
If she is telling me the truth, and she really doesn’t have to sleep with Ansel, this isn’t so bad. She gets to get dressed up, eat dinner, and make a decent living and all she has to do is listen to Ansel’s grimy stories and pose every few seconds for another selfie. Is that so wrong?
I mean, we are art majors. We perform for money all the time, and that is assuming we got lucky enough to not have to do it for free.
