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for leverage but stop short. “I’m going for a cigarette,” you say through gritted teeth, and take your Clint Eastwood attitude outside.
The wind catches hold of your tulle the minute you step from the door. It’s poofed out like a glittery mushroom, so you grab hold of the satin underskirt and hike it up to try and rearrange your pantyhose, your stomach, fishbelly white, and free. Members of the band are crowded together on the other side of an immense pillar, sharing a joint, giggling like morons.
You slink out to your car. Nearly an hour goes by—a long while for someone who doesn’t smoke—alone at the edge of the lot, watching the guests stumble out one by one. Heat rises from beneath your shirt in a straight line of fire up your neck. You’ve resorted to stalking. As you turn the key to leave, Jim and JoJo walk out together, share a bro hug, and totter drunkenly in opposite directions toward their vehicles.
So you decide—before always and never become sometimes and maybe—to ease your sedan across the lot, passenger window down, and stop alongside Jim’s car. “Want to get some pancakes,” you say, gesturing to the neon sign on the other side of the freeway. Breakfast alone is something you already know. It’s familiar, even preferable, in some ways, so you roll up your window and drive away, wondering if he’ll follow.