Cinnamon sits back beside me and takes all the beer caps off with her teeth. It is pretty hot to watch. She isn’t a helpless babydoll at all. She’s badass. I think about telling her she should channel this persona at the Mirror Box instead of the passive baby. But that would be presumptuous, and also, what do I know? She’s just trying to get tips and it probably works.

“Did your parents buy it?” she asks.

“My dad did,” I say. “My Taurus mom didn’t.”

Cinnamon laughs. “What’s your dad’s sign?”

“Pisces.”

Cinnamon shudders. “I’ve had bad experiences with Pisces.”

“Literally who hasn’t?” I say.

“The memes always present them as gentle and sweet,” she says.

“I know,” I say. “It’s some kind of conspiracy.”

“Absolutely,” Cinnamon says.

“Harvey Weinstein is a Pisces,” I say.

And she spits out her drink.

I enjoy making people laugh even though it is never my intention. I am being completely serious. Pisces can be emotional terrorists. They invented gaslighting. And Harvey Weinstein is a Pisces. People always laugh when I’m telling the truth and take me seriously when I am lying.

“Can I have another hit?” I ask Cinnamon.

“Of course.” She hands me the vape. “I feel like your sugar daddy, and it’s kind of interesting to be on this side of the equation.”

“That is interesting.” I hit the vape and feel a pleasant sting in my lungs. “Also, I’m sorry.”

Cinnamon grabs my shoulders. “I promise you, I’m into it.” She gulps her beer. “I have so much money right now and I’m thrilled to be able to use it on my friends.”

I feel a tiny jolt of joy, and it feels more authentic than chemical. Is Cinnamon my friend?

“Who knew all I had to do was …” She affects a new posture—more upright, but also softer. Alert, but submissive. “I’m baby,” she says in a breathy voice. “And the money just flows.”

“Chilling,” I say.

“You never know how sick people are until you work in a burlesque club.”

I look at my lap, ashamed. I blew it with Beau and spend all my disposable income being a creep.

“So, back to Beau Rubidoux.” She speaks in a patrician tone I didn’t recognize before. It reminds me of the Precious Starlets. I can see Hazel and Camilla working at Mirror Box as some kind of social experiment. I haven’t listened to them since I made eye contact with Beau.

Maybe I am just high.

“Okay,” I say, happy for the opportunity to relax back into storytelling. “I have this boy I string along named Thomas.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Exactly,” I say. “I saw that Beau was going to this bar called the Big Sleep.”

“Oh, that place,” Cinnamon says.

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s embarrassing.”

“It is.”