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twenty-year-old, ended up fucking one of your so-called best friends, or chased lesbians.
    Anyway. That summed up three of my heartbreaks.
    The salads were taken away and our entrees came.
    We finished our seafood dinners and he put the meal on his American Express. I offered to pay half. He wouldn’t let me. I tried to leave the tip. He wouldn’t let me do that either, said that he had asked me out. I thanked him, gathered up my yellow roses, let out a fake yawn, and grabbed my purse.
    We left the table, me hiding behind that big bouquet, passing by the hoochies who looked like actresses at a cattle call, trying to audition for the casting couch stuffed with the most money. A corral of wounded queens still trying to figure out how to fuck a guy without getting fucked over.
    Then I saw my reflection. New clothes, locks hooked up, thirty-something, smelling as good as good could get, no kids, no husband, nowhere to rush to on a cool night like tonight.
    Robertson Boulevard was lit up, holiday lights making the street look like a low-budget version of Vegas at night. Valet pulled my car up and I wanted to run and jump in before it stopped rolling.
    My date walked me to the car door. “Nice. My last car was a Benz.”
    â€œThanks.”
    When brothers saw the streetlights reflecting off the side of my cabriolet, my stock went up; their eyes started looking at my caboose like they wanted to ride this train.
    â€œRiding with the top down,” my date said. “Won’t you get cold?”
    â€œI turn the heat on full blast.”
    Valet pulled his car up behind mine. A 7-series BMW with personalized plates: FINE BLK MN .
    Mr. Delusional must have a lot of fun-house mirrors at his crib.
    This was the end of what I thought would be a Dionysianevening that led to Riesling kisses and fuck-me smiles by Christmas, then us naked, holding champagne, saying happy New Year.
    And just in case, as always, I had an overnight bag in the trunk of my car.
    My date asked, “Would you like to continue this conversation some—”
    â€œI really need to get home.”
    He said, “Call me and let me know you made it in.”
    â€œI will. Thanks for everything.”
    That was a lie. I sped down Robertson, my Inobe CD playing as loud as I could stand and as soulful as I wanted to become. I took a deep breath. I was a prisoner who had just been paroled.

F rankie
    S heer pande-fucking-monium.
    The restaurant next door to ’Bucks had more security than the Democratic National Convention. Orange cones blocked the entrance to the best parking like the velvet rope at an exclusive club. That side lot was stacked with high-end cars: 350ZXs, Escalades, BMW Z4s and X5s, Mercedes, Jags.
    You’d think I’d pulled up at the Taj Mahal.
    This was Java Lounge at ’Bucks; ’Bucks meaning Starbucks, the one in Ladera, an area filled with fast food joints, strip malls, and car dealerships; where six lanes of traffic on La Cienega, six on La Tijera, and six on Centinela came to a grinding halt. Magic owned the coffeehouse, TGIF, and Fatburger, so the air was filled with the scent of exotic coffees, hot wings, and overcooked hamburger meat. So you wouldn’t forget who owned the spot, murals of Magic Johnson’s grinning face were all over the place. Next door to ’Bucks was TGIF. That was where the chickenheads and wankstas hung out, sporting Sean John, Rocawear, Enyce, and Phat Farm like ghetto-fab Italian suits.
    â€™Bucks was where the poets, chess players, and musicians came to spread enlightenment with spoken word, have mental wars, and share songs from the heart. Vendors were out front selling candles and cards for Kwanzaa, incense and oils, Kente cloth, other Afrocentric things.
    Too wired to go home, too tired to go out, I’d come here towind down. And to hang out with Tommie. Needed to vent. I know it might sound stupid, but I was proud of myself for going through with the date and