Naughty or Nice by Eric Jerome Dickey

honest . . . this is awkward.”
    I blew air and nodded. “It is.”
    â€œWanna . . . stop?”
    I said, “Let’s just stop bullshitting each other.”
    â€œAw, man.” He nudged me. “Sure you want to? We were having so much fun.”
    â€œNo.” I laughed. “Not unless you do.”
    â€œYou keep touching your hair, your face.”
    â€œDo I?”
    He nodded. “You’re all over the place.”
    â€œYour leg keeps bouncing,” I told him. “The change in your pocket is talking to me.”
    â€œTrust me.” He had a nervous grin. “I’m over here hoping I’m funny, hoping that I’m impressing you in some way, hoping I’m a good date so far, hoping we have a good time.”
    I raised a brow. “You’re trying to impress me?”
    â€œYou’re beautiful. Good personality. Not what I expected.”
    I nudged him. “Stop stealing my thoughts.”
    He laughed again.
    I said, “I’m over here trying to think of open-ended questions to keep us talking.”
    We laughed together.
    â€œWhat we said . . .” I let my words hang, then shifted, didn’t know what to do with my hands, so I swallowed some more sake. “Did you want to . . . do something else?”
    â€œYeah. If you want to. No pressure. I’m free for the night.”
    He gave me a boyish smile, reached across the table, took my hand, rubbed my skin.
    He said, “Ready to go?”
    â€œLead the way.”
    We left Nippon, hand in hand, opening the door between us a little wider.
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    A lot of traffic was going into Horton Plaza, a combination of seasonal shoppers and moviegoers. Military sentiment and support was on bumper stickers, in store windows. This was a military town and a lot of the men had the buzz cuts to prove it.
    Carpe asked, “What kinda music do you like?”
    â€œDoesn’t matter. I’m open. You dance?”
    â€œLittle bit.”
    We heard blues playing and went into Croce’s, a shotgun-style bar that had a small stage up front. We sipped beers, ate peanuts, were having a great time. Two Heinekens later I was thinking, fuck Weight Watchers and fuck the rest of the calorie-counting world. The music resurrected my soul, and it felt like I was nineteen again, reliving my college days, wild and loose, throwing caution to the wind, going after whatever made me feel good at the moment.
    I didn’t know any of the songs, but I was rocking and clapping my hands and loving every minute of it. We’d been there about an hour when a couple of nice-looking sisters came in and sat at the bar. Fine women with big legs in short skirts. Carpe rubbed my leg, told me he’d be right back, then went to those women. It was interesting watching him introduce himself, interesting watching the way they reacted to him with smiles, and just like that they were in a conversation. Not more than a minute went by before he came back to me.
    He said, “There’s a hip-hop club around the corner.”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œYou said you wanted to dance.”
    â€œSo, anything I ask for, you can make it happen.”
    â€œI’ll do my best.”
    â€œA sister could get used to being treated like this.”
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    As soon as we walked into the club, we took off our coats and made our way to the crowded floor, found some elbow room, and danced to the remixed and hard beats of Too Short telling motherfuckers to quit hatin’, then bounced to 50 Cent, DMX, Nas, Snoop, and a few others. We danced until I felt sweat covering my arms and back. We rested long enough to wipe our brows, get more drinks, then went back to the dance floor.
    A camera kept flashing. It was a red-haired white girl, snapping away.
    She came out on the floor, a brother dancing all up on her, licking his lips and smiling like he wanted to use her to end racism, at least until the sun