Slam the pillow into some kind of shape, turn my face to the wall in
the darkness, wait for my heartbeat to slow in my ear, and out of the
darkness now her face hovers, looms ever closer and smiles down at me.

"Hi! It's me again!"

Yes, it's Carrie, brown eyes shining, straightened and swept bangs
framing that funicello face. She takes my hand in hers and tugs
lightly.

"Come on! I've been waiting!"

I met her in the strip club of the moment more than 8 years ago. It's
all gone now. The club, the girls too wasted to drive who needed me
for transportation, my inhibitions sailing away like a frisbee thrown
carelessly for any dog in the park.

But here, she hasn't changed a bit. She takes my hand and leads me to
the small round table near the wall, and sits so close, resting her
head with its jet-black tresses on my shoulder, asking how was my day.

"The usual, Carrie. I got the final report done just before the
deadline."

Her eyes gleam. "Oh! Good for you!"

I chuckle. "Thanks. But you know, next week.....next week
there's....I..."

I'm falling out of bed and jerk myself back. Straining, holding my
breath, I listen for almost a full minute. Nothing.

Relieved, I roll to my other side, close my eyes, hunker down and
summon her.

"Want a dance? Just between you and me?"

She is putting on that fake little-girl voice that she knows I hate,
but her eyes are warm and wide.

"It'll put you to sleep, I promise!"

"Ok, ok, you sold me," I say. I can't look into those eyes, so perfect
for me, without melting.

She stands between my legs, smiling down at me as I lay back. Her
hands on my shoulders slide up and over, down my back in time to the
music that always plays just out of earshot here, and her full brown
Vargas breasts warm my bearded cheeks. Sliding down, silk on fleece.
My tongue darts out, seeking...

"Huh?" I am sitting up instantly, heart pounding.

"It's in the icebox. I'm not kidding! Put it inna grubble ummaa adda."

I am aware that my arm is thrown over the warm blanket-shrouded mass
beside me.

"What's in the icebox?" I ask softly.

"Itsa chubbit humma uhnuh."

I tell the mass that everything is ok and to go to sleep, and I give
it a small squeeze and let my arm rest there, encircling, taking in as
much warmth as I can in this brief moment. After a time, I hear slow,
steady, slightly raspy breathing. I close my eyes.

I peer into the darkness. Gradually, it comes back. First her face,
then the table, then the distant stage, dimly lit in red, shrouded in
smoke. Someone tall, thin and pale undulates there, barely more
substantial than the smoke.

"You're not paying attention to me," I make Carrie say. The pout comes
to her lips unbidden. I could chew that sweet red lower lip. I could
lean forward and suck it in and taste all that cherry wine. She would
yield, pressing against me, nothing held back and all of it warm,
vital, brimming with health and joy. But not just yet; I want to hold
off oblivion a bit longer. Something needs to be said.

"I'm sorry, Carrie."

She smiles brightly. "It's ok, now that I've got you back."

I grin, just a little.

"Remember when we met, Carrie?"

She giggles. It's not an affected giggle, and it doesn't go on too
long. That would be annoying. No, she does it just right, just like
the doctor ordered.

Reading my thoughts, she says, "Just like you taught me!"

"Do you remember?"

She sits back a bit, drapes an arm over the back of a neighboring
chair. "Well of course I do! I was up on the stage, and you were
sitting right over there--" She points out one of the chairs at the
rail, beyond the far corner of the stage. "You were just sitting
there, with your elbows on the rail, your chin on your fists, just
staring up at me, with that same expression on your face that you have
now."

I am close-mouthed grinning at her.

"And I couldn't figure out why you looked so gawd-awful serious."

Her face goes all quizzical, raised eyebrows, pursed lips, wrinkled up
button nose. She pauses for two seconds, then goes on. "So I kept
bugging you to smile. And you kept saying, `I AM smiling! I AM!' But I
didn't believe you, and every couple of minutes I'd come back and tell
you to smile."

"And do you remember what I finally told you?"

She's told this story so many times that if you cut her up like a
flatworm and fed her to another stripper, that stripper would be able
to repeat the story verbatim. But she never gets tired of telling it.

"Yes!" She smiles, her eyes twinkling. "You said, 'You better not ask
for what you don't want. Don't you know what it means when a dog shows
you his teeth?'"

The room shimmers.

She smiles, her eyes twinkling. "You said, 'You better not ask for
what you don't want. Don't you know what it means when a dog shows you
his teeth?'"

Blackness fading.

"You said, 'You better not ask for what you don't want.'"

Gravel crackles out on the street, headlights drag a window-frame
cross along the wall of the bedroom.

"'Don't you know what it means when a dog shows you his teeth?'"

The swaddled mass beside me trembles violently and utters, "HOOH! UH!"

Quickly, I roll over, wrap my arm around her and whisper, "It's ok,
honey, it's ok. You're dreaming. It's ok. Go back to sleep."

The mass sighs contentedly, a high, girlish sound I only hear at such
times now.

Carrie is waiting, head tilted, cheek resting on one palm, her other
hand stirring a rum and coke with a plastic straw, and she is smiling,
as always.

"I have a confession, Carrie."

She raises her eyebrows, mocking. "Oh really? Well spill it, honey."

"Um..." I look away. I can't face my own confabulation. "I've been
going to other clubs. You know--real ones."

Her expression does not change. "I know."

"I mean, I'm going out a couple nights a week now. I meet lots of
girls, you know."

"I know."

"I mean, they're there, for real, and they're so...vibrant."

"Yes, I know they are."

Now I turn and look at her. "But none of them measures up to you."

Her smile widens only a little. "I know that too."

And even though I knew what she was going to say, I feel better. Not
like such a shithead. Not like such a weak, whining quitter.

Carrie's hand leaves her drink, slides forward along the table, and
pats the top of mine.

"How is she?" she asks.

"Uh...well, she had chemo today--you know, it's Thursday--so she was
throwing up again."

She squeezes my hand, looks hard into my eyes, the smile gone. "But
it's not just the typical Thursday, is it?"

I look at her for a long moment, summoning up the strength to tell her
what I must tell myself.

"No. While she was in there, I ...I talked to the doctor. It's....it's
not working anymore. It's probably not ever going to work again. He
thinks we should stop it, just... you know, take what's going to
come."

God bless her, there are tears in her eyes, so I can see, and she
asks, "Does she know?"

"No. I didn't want to tell her last night when she was feeling so
sick. I'll have to do it though, tomorrow."

Carrie smiles at me, continuing to stroke my hand, and repeats, as
often as I need her to, until I can't hear her, or anything else,
anymore:

"We'll both tell her. I'll be with you. We'll both tell her."

--Seldom Scene