My Cardboard Balcony

Okay. by Belinda Roddie so i'm sitting at the downtown café at half past three, smoking something cheap and drinking something cheaper, when she rips open the sky like a curtain, comes drifting down, and lands right on the stool across from mine. she asks, "is there anyone who likes to dance anymore?" and i tell her no, because music was banned throughout the country after the president's daughter wrecked an ankle while pirouetting, could never dance again, and threw herself into the Hudson in shame. so i'm puffing and sipping and she's sighing and spitting out of the corner of her red mouth, all moaning and groaning about the WORLD TODAY. and the WORLD TODAY is full of hiccups over champagne and tattoos hidden under long sleeves, and underground movements where knees wobble on platform shoes as shadows sway, back and forth, back and forth, and back when the cops come to break the party up. she won't leave me alone, u

"Don't!" Arvey screamed, grabbing Quinoni's arm. "It's just an illusion! It's not there!" Quinoni did not seem to hear her, or see her. She continued to walk toward the ever distorting, ever frightening mirage. Arvey could see it, too, all too vividly. Whatever had been slipped into their goblets was potent. All around them, people were laughing. "Qui!" Arvey shrieked.