The foggy stupor Michelle’s touch had put him in lifted, at least momentarily, when they first stepped into the strip club. The bouncer greeted her warmly, then openly snickered at Henry, calling him kid. Any glamor he’d imagined to be housed in this sort of establishment immediately proved to be just that: imagined. Besides the smears of flashing lights, laser squiggles, and disco ball refractions, the first thing he spotted was a long plastic picnic table lined with tinfoil dishes holding a lunch buffet’s scraps, all of it glowing ocher under a scuzzy sneeze guard. A few women in plastic pumps clicked from one customer to the next, whose seated shadows were scattered in chairs as far from one another as possible. Baseball cap brims twisted after the women as soon as their backs were turned. A raised, mirrored platform jutted into the center of the space like a silver tongue. It was pinned into place like some huge, metallic specimen by a pole at its tip. The bodies of the women that strutted onto the stage were as imperfect, lumpy, and scarred as any he might have come across at a public pool, though this was his first time seeing a human being wearing neon dental floss in person. It was gloom in technicolor. He didn’t want to get hard, but he did anyway.

The women all knew Michelle. With each new name and handshake, Henry made a point of staring intently at the spot right between their smoky eyelids, as if ignoring the rest of their bodies would somehow elevate him above the other men, those mere customers. Despite how foreign this place felt, he did find one familiar aspect, which did nothing to comfort him. In the eyes of every woman Michelle introduced him to, no matter how glitzy the eyeshadow or gooped the mascara, he found the same million-mile stare that dimmed Papa’s gaze after a long day of work.

Luckily, Michelle’s plan had been to drink on the patio outside rather than in the club, which felt like being trapped in a chain smoker’s mouth. Other than the bouncer, the bartender was the only male employee. He was doing double duty, pouring drinks between playing MC, grabbing a mic to introduce dancers up to the stage. Henry felt as tense and mangled as his hard-on choking against denim. He was getting sick of small talk and nodding along while Michelle made the rounds, catching up with every last person on the clock, and, now—how marvelous—she asked the bartender about his upcoming arraignment. Henry hoped his strained smile wouldn’t be taken for a cringe. He nodded and nodded as if nailing down his chin to prevent it from swiveling over to Charlotte, now taking the stage. When Michelle finally ordered a pitcher of Rolling Rock and two glasses, he made himself useful and slammed a twenty to the bar top.

$80.00

“Five bucks, youngblood,” the bartender said.