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Tiffany submitted silently to the degrading costume, standing perfectly still while Liz worked. Liz finished her off with two big gold bracelets then handed her a pair of four-inch spike heeled shoes.Liz stood next to me as we watched Tiffany fumble with her new body, trying to bend down and strap on the shoes.As I peeled Tiffany's own money off the stack in my jacket pocket, I said, "don't worry about her taking off the clothes. She's a cocksucker. All mouth. She just loves to swallow, so, no problem with the clothes."---I picked a bar in a decent working-class black neighborhood and set her up for business on a barstool near the men's room. She grabbed my arm as I started to walk away but I glared at her and she let go. "Sit. Sip. and flirt. You're used to it, aren't you?" She lowered her eyes, anger and shame raging. "Letting men buy you drinks? You know. Of course, you were the sweet, hot, grad student from USC, weren't you? Not a slutty little black hooker with a big bubble. God, I missed her. I sometimes had to strain to remember her voice and tonight was one of those nights. I was ashamed of myself. I promised I’d never forget and here I was trying to remember her laugh. I should hear that laugh every day. I should see her smiling at our baby. I should be listening to her talk about her day. We should be living in a house of our own, with kids and joy and a future.Instead, I was sitting on the floor of a garage apartment, drinking alone and crying for a life that wouldn’t ever be. I lost myself in sorrow, weeping turning to sobbing, sobbing turning to whimpering as I daydreamed about her on our wedding day, about holding her hand as a doctor told her to push, about listening to her sing in the nursery and a hundred other happy memories that we’d never have. I cried because she was gone and because I wasn’t. I wished I was driving or that we’d gone to the movies or a club or anywhere but home that night.It was the middle of the night when I felt a hand.
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