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and orders a Red Bull for me and a Dewar’s for himself. We follow the leather curves of the club through legs pointing toward the edge of the stage, and sit at a table. Above us, a woman in a silver thong and tassels turns in circles around a pole in the shape of a star. John throws his Scotch back and watches her until he gets dizzy, then stands to order another.
    You good? he says.
    Not really.
    What’s wrong? This is fun.
    I don’t want to be here, John.
    Just enjoy it. You never enjoy yourself.
    He leaves me and moves toward the neon corner that marks the bar. The song changes to Britney Spears’s “If You Seek Amy” and the dancer spins in tighter concentric circles around the pole. Then she stops, facing me.
    She points her legs away from both sides in a perfect cross. Her skin is shining. She’s radiant. Sexy.
    She rotates slowly on her axis and slides down, crossing her ankles. She puts her hands on the stage, bent backward.
    Mirrors surrounding the stage reflect her body from eight different angles. Every reflection is ideal, every line a smooth curve joining every other into a full form. She twists her feet to the ground and crawls toward me like a tiger, her hair covering her face.
    Do you feel objectified? Disrespected?
    No. Never.
    Her eyelashes burst in black flames.
    You have an accent. Where are you from?
    I am here for winter from Russia.
    Do you like it?
    It’s the same. Shallow, cheap.
    The room spins and bodies move around us but we remain still. She brings her hands to my face. She touches my mouth.
    You’re beautiful, I say.
    You like me?
    How do I get it? How do I know when I’ve gotten it?
    Do you see how she moves? John says.
    He puts two Coronas on the table.
    This is fun, isn’t it? he says. Do you want a lap dance?
    He pulls a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet and hands it to me. He’s slurring his words. He’s had drinks at the bar.
    Are you drunk?
    I am not.
    You know we still have to drive tonight.
    Yes.
    I can’t drive. I can’t see, John.
    And I thought you weren’t drinking.
    We’re at a strip club.
    You’re a liar.
    You’re a liar.
    I give him back his fifty and say that I’m going outside to smoke.
    One more drink, he says. Then I swear we can go. Here, drink your Red Bull.
    You can drive a little bit, if it makes you feel better.
    It doesn’t.
    Bourbon Street is a hot mess.
    I drive us past the Superdome and out of New Orleans and pull off I-10 just after Gulfport, Mississippi, seeing out of one eye. We stop at a Best Western that’s full except for one room with two twin beds. It comes with a bible and a TV Guide in the bedside table, an assortment of Ghirardelli chocolates, and a refrigerator fully stocked with Coca Cola products marked uptwo hundred percent. The top drawer of the dresser has a guide to local restaurants that top out at P.F. Chang’s.
    John turns on the TV and falls asleep in his clothes on one of the beds. One foot remains resting on the floor. He begins snoring.
    I turn off the TV and sit on the other bed and watch him. His mouth hangs open and a pool of drool is beginning to form in his lower lip. His tongue rests fat and pink over his teeth. A receding hairline makes a widow’s peak above his broad white forehead, growing pasty with sweat. His cheekbones are lost beneath his cheeks.
    I reach over and shake him.
    John, you didn’t take your pills.
    Huh?
    You didn’t take your pills.
    Oh.
    His eyes drift halfway open and then close. I shake him.
    John, you didn’t take your pills. Wake up.
    I’m awake.
    You said you wouldn’t drink.
    He licks his lips, turns over onto his back, and brings his leg up onto the bed. His foot hangs over the side.
    John. Wake up.
    I don’t really want to wake him.
    John.
    Snoring.
    You didn’t take your pills. You said you weren’t drunk, so you need to take your pills.
    I walk to the bathroom and turn on the light and look at myself in the mirror. I smell the tiny soaps and unwrap a plastic cup, fill it with