He had just spun me like a top in my white go-go boots, and grasped me again around the waist, his face against the elastic of my long blonde wig. “God, you still smell good!” he said into my neck. And I thought, I do? Maybe it’s the sickly-sweet of gold glitter spray.
And then I thought: no, it’s more likely the button-down men’s shirt I’m wearing as a dress tonight, the one that smells so wonderfully of another.