The angry-looking dancer rolls her eyes at Cinnamon, who either ignores her or doesn’t notice. She is busy rummaging through the duffel.

“Who is ‘they’?”

“The owners,” she says. “They always get us an upper and a downer every night. Mostly the upper is coke, which is whatever, but sometimes they treat us to molly.” She is talking into the duffel bag, digging. She pulls out a bag of white powder and holds it up to the light. “I think molly. It’s more crystal-y.”

The angry dancer pulls the bag out of Cinnamon’s hand. “It’s molly,” she says. “And it’s good.” She dips an acrylic nail into the bag, fills it with the crystal-y powder, then sniffs hard. Her eyes go cross-eyed for a quick second.

“Leave some for us,” Cinnamon says.

“First come, first served,” the angry girl says.

Cinnamon rolls her eyes. “I guess we have to do it now then,” she says. I suppose this is how the owners get the girls to perform this early, when they don’t have much of a chance at tips.

The angry girl hands the bag back to Cinnamon, who pulls a dusty gold tray from the duffel bag. Cinnamon begins cutting lines. It’s been a while since I’ve done molly. I like it, obviously, as I am a human being. But I haven’t done it in years. I am worried I will react poorly. I might be too eager and kill my enigmatic vibe.

“Do you think this is a good idea?” I ask. I don’t care if I sound like a nerd. “What if I get too happy and Beau thinks I’m a loser?”

“I don’t think that’s possible for you.” Cinnamon laughs. “Plus, this stuff is super clean. And we have, like, hours until he’ll be here.”

I’m transported back to my early twenties, when I did drugs mostly to kill time, to quicken my race to death. I guess that’s why everyone does drugs in LA. They aren’t becoming the stars they thought they would be when they moved here, and they have all this free time. So they do drugs to fill time and to feel as happy as they think they should feel, for living in LA and pursuing their dreams, even if the good feelings are brief and ultimately empty. I did this for a while until I started making actual money. I decide it is okay, just for today. It is a special occasion. I am backstage at Mirror Box and I am about to see Beau. I am connecting with humans in a normal, healthy way. I think even my former therapist would approve.

The disembodied male voice interrupts my thoughts: “Cinnamon, you’re up next.”

Cinnamon snorts a line. “What should I dance to?”

“Britney, obviously,” I say. “You always do Britney.”

“She has, like, a billion songs!” Cinnamon shouts.