While The Gallery was always less crowded during the day, the mornings still consisted of queens hanging around, playing cards and killing time before the evening’s festivities. As I entered the club on that dreary April morning, I noticed there were fewer marjories than there had been the month before. Every establishment’s patronage had dwindled, and it was impossible to think any business could hoist itself up with tattered strings.

I made my way back to Abraham’s office, knocked on the door and awaited his call to ‘come in.’

“How’s it going, Egg?” Abe greeted, standing to shake my hand. Though he was as handsome as ever, he looked tired, with bags hanging under his bleary eyes.

“Alright,” I replied, taking my usual seat. “The better question is, how are you?”

“I’m still here,” he answered, his response far from the affirmations of the past.

I was sure Abraham felt strange around me just as I felt around him. It was impossible to ignore the Georgia-sized chasm between us, yet we both refused to acknowledge the division.

“And me?” I ventured, reading his body language as it spelled out my demise.

“I wish I could say the same. There are incentives for going with a bigger distributer and I can’t afford not to.” He looked empathetic in a way I found reprehensible. I didn’t desire his softness, much preferring cold, hard cash.

“You don’t have to explain,” I assured, clearing my throat. “It was only a matter of time.”

Ordering my hand to stop trembling, I stood to shake his while tuning out the niceties he was spouting. I didn’t need a kiss with the fuck, I just needed it to be over with.

As I walked to the next parlor, expecting the same outcome, I hummed the death lullaby of my younger years. I was on borrowed time.

18

October 1934