I try to walk away from the voice and then feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around. It’s Cinnamon from the Mirror Box. I feel moderately relieved. I don’t need to perform any type of social normalcy for a stripper.

“Hi,” I say.

“I forget your name,” she says.

“I probably didn’t tell you. I hate my name.”

She smiles. “Same.”

I assume Cinnamon is a stage name and wonder what her real name is.

“What are you up to?” she asks. She looks different from usual, and I realize it’s because she is fully clothed. She’s wearing an oversized parka and black leggings and her hair is down, not in pigtails. So I guess the babydoll act is just for the Mirror Box and its gross patrons, like me.

“Buying cat food,” I say. “I’m having a shit day.” I never tell people about my day, so I’m not sure why I’m doing so now.

“Oh my god, me too,” she says. “Wanna put off our shopping and get a drink?”

“Yes,” I say.

“What’s your real name?” I ask Cinnamon. We are sitting in a dive bar in the back of a Thai restaurant and we are the only people here. No one asked for our IDs and there is no bartender. Cinnamon just grabbed two beers from a fridge behind the bar and told me they were “on her.” This relieved me because I’m not supposed to be making any unnecessary expenditures. I stole the cat food from Food 4 Less, an honorable act for animal rights. PETA should give me an award. And beer is basically food. It will be my dinner tonight. I am eating for free.

“What do you mean?” Cinnamon asks.

“‘Cinnamon’ is a stage name, right?”

She shakes her head no.

“Wow,” I say.

“Yeah,” she says. She cracks open one of the beers with her teeth. “My mom’s dumb as hell.”

I laugh. “Same,” I say. She hands me the open beer and cracks open the other, then gulps.

“So, tell me about your horrible day,” she says.

“God.” I feel comfortable with Cinnamon, in this creepy bar that is probably a drug front. For the first time in forever, I want to tell the truth. “You know how I do readings?”

“Yeah,” she says. “You’re incredible.”

I don’t react to this compliment. It does not even qualify as a compliment to me. “So, I read this guy’s chart over email. And it was just this beautiful chart—”

“More beautiful than ours?” Cinnamon interrupts, then winks. It’s cute.

“Of course not,” I say. “Nothing is.”

“Dumb question,” she says.