The
bar is busy now. Men in small clothes crouch around tables and recount the last
record they heard. They pretend to be numb; interestingly, some pretend to feel
everything. Sometimes these men make themselves cry. I don’t know what the women do because we don’t talk. There is nothing to gain from them. Perhaps a friendship would burgeon, but that requires time and energy—things better spent on boys who ignore me after we’ve fucked.