“May I come in?” he asks: wide eyes, semi-drunk, lip gloss smeared ever so slightly over his bottom lip, which has been probably freshly applied in the car out front.
“Of course. Of course,” I tell him, step aside.
“This will only take a moment.” He walks inside. Sashays to and fro. How much alcohol has he consumed this evening to wobble this much? I wonder. Who’s driving? Cliff or Iron? Neither should be. He steps beyond the foyer, into the depths of the living room and a cemetery of scattered glasses, bottles, and small plates of nibbled-on and left behind food, or what I like to call food debris. Cliff makes eye contact with my lover.
Darsey is about to scuttle away into the depths of the kitchen.
Cliff is direct and to the point, and tells him, “Darsey, stick around. I want you to
