I sashay up to the table—a class of Calvados in one hand and my Treo and a Dunhill green that they keep telling me to put out in the other. I’m ashing on the spongy porno-set carpet. I’m taking pictures with my finger over the lens. I’ve got mascara smeared across my eyebrow. I reek of herbal essence and I’m grabbing at people’s elbows for support.
I like the feeling of the white linen tablecloth. It has the right weight and demeanor.
I take a long sip of my digestif and scrutinize the other members of my table. They are idiots but I’m scared of them. There’s a heavy black curtain threatening at any second to fall down around my eyes. It’s inevitable, no amount of coffee or coke or diet pills is going to stop it now. The only thing left is to brace for landing. I fold up my cash and wedge it deep in the front pocket of my jeans, along with my keys…
My head snaps back and forth as I fall in and out of a dream. I break into a hideous grin.
“You’re the people I’ve chosen to make a fool of myself in front of,” I solemnly inform the rest of the table.
oddchild
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