Drumsticks by Charlotte Carter Page A

answer I wanted to hear.
    In the end he merely shrugged and said, “Yeah.”
    Well, that was honest. Kind of like my father—you gotta tell the truth even when it might work against you, and certainly without regard to how it might affect anybody else.
    â€œIs that what happened with your marriage—too many other women?”
    I had made another joke, unintentionally. If you’re married to a guy, how many other women does it take to add up to “too many”?
    â€œWe didn’t break up over sex,” he said, and I thought I caught a trace of patronization in his tone. “I know you think I’m Mr. Straight Arrow. But from the very beginning Michele and I had an understanding about attractions to other people. Michele was very enlightened about it. We had a more or less open marriage, as they used to call it.”
    Loosely translated: I was a real boody fiend.
    So Michele merely smiled and said skip that lipstick, eh? Ha.
    I averted my head until I could wipe the smirk off my lips. Was I being unfair to Dan Hinton? People were hard on pretty men. It just seems so difficult to believe anything they say. Maybe it was an especially thorny problem for pretty black men, a lot of whom—let’s face it—don’t give too much of a shit whether you believe them or not. They know you’re going to give it up anyhow, am I lying?
    My attention had wandered a little. Dan was winding up his explanation of why he and Michele had split. I caught only the part about her not being able to accept that he had no intention of quitting his job to work for a corporation.
    We got back to more immediate matters: a police raid on the wrong apartment that had ended in the death of a young man and his girlfriend, the names we gave as children to our imaginary siblings, did I really hate my dad’s wife Amy or was it just the idea of her, what did I think of Wynton Marsalis.
    It was late, one-thirty, when we paid up and left the restaurant. The manager bid us good night and bolted the door behind us.
    We stood on the sidewalk, close together, not talking.
    After a while he drew me to him, another kiss, not much cousin in that one.
    â€œShould I put you in a cab?” he asked.
    I thought about it for a second and then shook my head.
    â€œWalk you home?”
    â€œWe could walk,” I said, “but not home.”
    He didn’t quite know what I meant. Even so, sexual anticipation flicked on in his eyes. I couldn’t blame him. This was the moment when two people who’ve had a great evening together decide yes or no.
    â€œI don’t think you should see me home,” I said.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause I’d probably ask you upstairs and jump straight into the sack with you.”
    â€œAnd that would be bad because …?”
    I laughed. “Yeah, I know, I didn’t really answer you.”
    â€œIs it because of Eddie? Because I work for him?”
    â€œBelieve me, it’s not that. I just—shouldn’t—tonight,” I said. “Look, we’re only a few blocks from where my friend Aubrey works. I think I’ll stop in over there. Maybe I’ll spend the night at her place.”
    Gentleman Dan pushed no further. We turned south on Sixth Avenue. The wind nipped mildly at his open raincoat and he kept me near to him with an arm over my shoulder.
    â€œThis is it,” I said when we arrived at Caesar’s Go Go Emporium.
    â€œAre you serious!” he asked for the second time that evening.
    â€œYes,” I said. “This is where Aubrey works. Exotic dancing, I think they call it.”
    Caesar’s was as lurid as ever. Dirty windows outlined in blinking red bulbs, the vile back beat of disco music booming out through the door and onto the street.
    â€œGross, isn’t it?” I said.
    Dan shook his head, the weirdest grin on his face.
    â€œI’m safe going in by myself,” I told him. “They’ve