“Honey, what’s a mezzanine?”
“Well, in architecture a mezzanine’s like an intermediate floor between main floors of a building.”
“Right. So you’d call it a, I don’t know, place to hang out?”
“Kinda. Think of it like this: your shins are a sidewalk.”
“Here we go… fuck, Robbie, can’t you just…”
“Woah Cowgirl, let me finish. Yeah?”
“Ok.”
“Right. Your shins are a sidewalk…” I waited for her sigh, and it came, “and your thighs are a boulevard. Then you have the lobby between your thighs. This is where travelling salesman can check-in, and check out, if you get me?”
“Robbie…”
“In this instance, the mezzanine would be the navel. Your navel. Your breasts are a main floor, and your mouth is the penthouse apartment. One can’t sleep in the lobby, you see, but one can spend a lot of time in the penthouse. Drinking wine, eating cake. Talking shit.”
“And right about now you’re talking about sex, is that right?”
“Sex and mezzanines and cake. Yep.”
“You’re an idiot. I’m going back to drawing pictures of possums.”
And so she did. She drew pictures of possums and drank whiskey straight like I never could. The smoke I blew into the wind didn’t bother her, even as a non-smoker. It was as if thick velour drapes were blocking the smoke, splitting it in two, washing past her head, like a great wave against a million-year-old rock. Not that she looked like a rock.
Well, not a rock without features, anyhow.
