Dear Wigleaf,

I saw you the other night at the corner of Tropicana and Las Vegas Blvd. You were holding one of those big red-orange drinks from Coyote Ugly, like a tourist, which is maybe why you didn't wave back. I was on my way from the MGM Grand to Excalibur, looking for a five dollar Pai Gow game. You were just standing there, lazy, eying the escort catalogs with thinly veiled interest. It was eleven o'clock.

That time you kissed me, your mouth tasted like tequila and cigarettes. Do you remember that? We were standing outside Binion's watching the light show on Freemont Street. We were on our way to the Gold Spike to see if what they say about the smell there is true. It was. You disappeared then. Where did you go? I looked for you until dawn. Walking Fremont at sunup is like walking the surf at low tide, when everything left behind is still alive, but barely. I took a taxi home. It cost thirty-five dollars.

Missing you,

Beth






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Read BT's story, "Upon Learning the Fetus Has Fingernails."

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