Do I dare show my face back at the table to Nick, tell him about Where’s Fluffy? I know he’s a fan. I swiped the last make-up mix he burned for Tris that led off with the Where’s Fluffy track, “Take Me Back, Bitch.” God, he made great playlists for her. Tal’s mixes for me were all Dylan and Yma Sumac crap. Nick could mix Cesaria Evora to Wilco to Ani followed by Rancid, capped off with Patsy Cline blending into a Fugazi finale. Although at some point, if our whatever-it-is-happening-this-night progresses, I’ll have to reeducate Nick on the poor use of Patti Smith and Velvet Underground tracks on lovesick playlists. Fucking hate them. Patti Smith was a poser suck-up, and Lou Reed was just a plain dick.

DICK! Did I really ask Nick if he had a name for his dick?

Maybe Tal called it right—I should have been more grateful for him, because no guy besides Tal would ever put up with me.

Caroline may be passed out in a stranger’s van right now, but I know what she would say to me now: “Tal was NOT right. And go back out there and give this a better shot. You can do this. Bitch, get the f**k back out there.”

I pick up the black Sharpie pen dangling from a string attached to the bathroom mirror and scribble my contribution to the graffiti trail on the wall:

The Cure. For the Ex’s? I’m sorry, Nick. You know. Will you kiss me again?

I splash some cold water on my face at the bathroom sink and take a deep breath. Time to go back out there and make this right. I am brand-new. I can change. Only not for Tal. For me.

7. NICK

I am doing everything right. And it is getting the exact right reaction. This is like a miracle to me.

I am as intimidated as f**k to be in the VIP section. I am a little mesmerized by the left nun, who is actually playing the acoustic guitar for “Edelweiss” and twirling her pasties at the same time. I am afraid of the way Norah’s looking at me like I have a chance. But somehow I manage to step out of my seat and get her to step out of her seat. I know exactly where to put my hands and where to put her body and just like that we are locked together in a moment, and it is, remarkably, the exact right thing for the moment to be.

I am not used to this.

I don’t even notice when the music ends, I am so in my own music. But then the record scratches, the DJ bobbles, the moment crashes, the right turns wrong, Norah pushes me away and spits the word nice out at me, then runs to pee.

I am not used to this, either. But I expect it more.

I watch as she goes. Tony/Toni/Toné acts as her fairy god-motherfather, waving a Playboy Bunny air freshener in the air to part the crowd around the Laydies’ Room (as opposed to the Laddies’ Room, which seems, from the exasperated looks of the people on line, to be currently occupied by a Tantric pair). The nuns on stage have now broken all of their habits, and are parading around in sprigs of what I can only imagine is edelweiss. I can see a lonely goatherd gawking from the front row.

This should divert me, but my mind keeps returning to a simple, scary fact:

I am liking Norah.

I am liking the way she’s friends with Playboygirl Bunnies. I am liking the way she knows how to drive stick. I am liking that I have to earn her smiles and laughs. I am liking the way she kissed me. I am liking the way she seems to be able to get past the past. I could learn from that. I am liking that I can throw any kind of sentence at her without worrying it’s too out there.

I could easily start to obsess (or, at least, stress) about this, but luckily another diversion soon joins me at the table. It’s Tony/Toni/Toné, dressed now as a priest. I mean, he’s dressed as a woman dressed as a priest.

“I’m on in ten minutes,” she says, to explain the costume change. “Is Norah still powdering?”

“She’s the lulu of the loo.”

“Perfect! Now us girls can chat.” She bows her head in my direction, ready to listen, but even readier to ask. “How long have the two of you been the two of you?”

I look at my watch. “About an hour, including transportation.”

Tony/Toni/Toné whistles her appreciation. “That’s four times as long as any of my relationships have lasted.”

“Well, this one might not be setting any new world records,” I find myself saying.

“No!” Tony/Toni/Toné exclaims. “I saw the two of you canoodling. You’re a regular Johnny Castle.”

I have no idea who Johnny Castle is, but I definitely approve of the name.

Tony/Toni/Toné places her palms together and looks at me with a kindness that has no sexuality. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.”

“How long has it been since your last confession?”

I look him right back in the eye and answer.

“Three weeks, two days, and twenty-four—fuck. Three weeks and three days ago, I guess.”

“And what was that confession?”

“‘I love you.’”

“That’s a serious one. And how was it received?”

“Vow of silence. And chastity, until the next guy came along.”

“So what do you have to confess now?”

I don’t know why I’m saying any of this, except that it’s the truth.

“I’m confessing that I don’t know if I’m ready for this.”

“What is ‘this’?”

Being open. Being hurt. Liking. Not being liked. Seeing the flicker on. Seeing the flicker off. Leaping. Falling. Crashing.