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“Like an essay?” I ask, mostly because I am definitely sure it will not be an essay, partly because I want to practice talking without sounding drunk.
It’s not going great. Even to my ears, it sounded like I saidesshay.
“Perhaps, perhaps,” she sings out.
An essay. That’s funny. I don’t know why it is so funny, except for the part where I can’t imagine Seattle seated behind a laptop for hours and hours, actually compiling words—English words—into sentences and paragraphs that other people are meant to understand. Most of her work is about obscuring meaning. Writing an essay would just be…
Sort of like pounding a screw into the middle of a page.
“Are you feeling okay, my dear?” Ansel says sweetly, and it takes me a moment to realize that his hand is drifting along my thigh.
“Oh, certainly,” I answer automatically.
It seems like a good idea to take a drink, but the drink is whiskey again. So much whiskey. How many is this?
Ansel’s hand slides quickly to the middle of my thigh, pushing up toward my crotch. I feel it and don’t feel it at the same time. My skin is buzzing from underneath like I am filled with bees. White noise. Prickly points of light that are trying to get out through my hair follicles.
No, that’s the music. That’s what the light is. It’s in the music, sparkling on top of the baseline. Popping all over the place like corn and heat and oil…
“I’m just going to sneak away to the ladies’ room,” I mumble urgently, heaving my body toward the end of the booth.
But my legs are numb. My knees feel weird. I forgot there is a step, and when I try to reach the floor, it’s a good eight inches below where I expect. My wedge-heeled shoes save me, like little emergency pontoon boats, but then my knees sabotage the whole process and I start to go down.
Man overboard!calls a ridiculous little voice in my head.
I fully expect to land on my ass, but that is not what happens. Instead, I am lifted up from underneath, quickly repositioned in a dignified way, with my weight on my heels in my shoes the way it’s supposed to be. Spine vertical. Looking up into a familiar set of white, straight teeth.
“You’re all right,” comes a voice that I recognize.
“You’re Diego,” I reply with a smile, so happy that I figured it out.
“All day long,” he smirks. “Looked like you were about to stumble. I hope you don’t mind my interference.”
Shaking my head, I feel my curls sliding over my shoulders. It’s nice. Kind of ticklish. My hair is much heavier than I remember.
“Don’t mind at all, Diego. In fact, thank you very much. Thank you. Very, very much.”
Delicately, he extracts himself bit by bit. He seems to be making sure that I am going to continue standing, even if he is not holding me up.
He’s very close. Just inches. I’ve seen him from far away. He looks different now. He looks…
“Oh, hey, you have clothes on!” I smile.
He smiles back, a wide, confident grin. This I recognize.
“Is that a problem?”
“No, no problem at all!” I explain. “It’s just weird. I’ve seen your dick!”
Instantly, I hear my words. I want to take them back. Sucking my breath in makes my stomach lurch and I realize there is a decent chance that I’m going to vomit onto his shoes.
“I’m sorry!” I bleat.
“Lindy!” I hear Seattle laugh.
She just laughs and laughs. The camera goes off over and over. Flash. Flash. Flash.
“No, no… I’m so sorry!” I mumble as I back away, but I feel my ankles rolling underneath me.
