The waitress quietly deposited both checks on the table for me and I hastily scrawled my name on the credit card slip, glancing back quickly to see an...empty table... gone. The scent of her perfume still permeated the air,but the chair sat empty. Deserted. The waitress slipped quietly away, stopping at the ladies table to pick up a scrap of napkin. "I believe she left this for you" she whispered as she dropped it to the table. "Follow me" I bolted for the door, scrambling for my keys, dropping. ) Text you when’m done wit m’boys. Later.’ Women’s MAC-linered bocas (mouths) suck on mints. Men without a sure titty for the night comfort themselves manually. That is, right hand clutches beer bottle or right hand rests against crotch. Women and men alike absent-mindedly check their cell phones every few minutes for…that one and only text message that can save their soul. Although I walk home alone from the club, I fill the solitude by reflecting on the night’s details and eyeballing every. More

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