no one left to say f_ck you to, she comes in, almost tripping on her excess words of apology, hoodie up, late for dinner, glasses large on her face, almost closing time for this restaurant, a converted pharmacy, complete with stack of mini-shopping carts, rolls of gauze on shelves, my hands shaking slightly. i take the champagne out of the ice bath, and the waiter in white jacket pops the cork. i straighten my tuxedo tie and take a sip. there is some black bean dip and screwdrivers for both of us. she takes off her scarf and sits down. why couldn't she have dressed up? the ceiling fan is annoying me. she swings her pigtail over her shoulder and plays with it. some fratty latino kids are banging at a pinata in the back. i examine them sternly. Memphis is sometimes a strange scene when you are a thirty-seven year old artistrocrat.

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