She thrashed again, sharp breaths coming ragged between her teeth. I felt her fish around for something in her pocket. She has a history of keeping things in her pockets that poke her endlessly while making out. She pressed a shiny object into my hand. I glanced at the small folding knife.
"A nuisance?" I asked.
She fought her eyes into focus. "A hint," she hissed.
I snapped the knife open and smiled.
A New Year’s Eve Party, well past midnight. I am downstairs with an artist friend, the fabulous diva who is her gay male twin, and a couple of others. I have been kneeling in front of a low chair, and to loosen up, I stretch backwards on it, hands over my head, so I am a supine line facing The Artist, with my knees just short of touching hers.
"Dammit Victor!" she yells, "I’m trying to be faithful!"
And it was simply the sweetest thing she could possibly say.
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