Elvis isn’t sure if it was centrifugal force driving him away from their apartment after a day inside, or if some centripetal element was pulling the pair towards south First, but Elvis is feeling censorious for going out last night with Emma Lee, A&B. The cavalcade started honestly enough—work until seven, then to a gallery opening around eight. The cache of art was in tucked away on North 12. The Turkey’s Nest was cathartic, and the beer hall served up dinner, but Emma Lee keeps carping on her un-canny (meaning not thrifty) decision to have a third drink at Monkey Town. The youthful bartender was perhaps even more callow than she, and when she asked for something with St. Germain, she had a few cavil suggestions and carped on the beverage more than she should’ve. But what was done was done, and the contrite consumer drank it down. Emma Lee maintained the credulity she’d be in bed by one AM until well after that complaisant hour, at that point she was actually cozen to pick up a picture-taker at the bar. The convivial fellow joined their coterie, and Elvis capitulated to the goodtimes around 1:30, and ended up at a pretty fun party in a capacious back yard on South First.
Emma Lee wasn’t drunk last night, but Elvis worries about her cerebration and her ready cession to booze and good times. Was the night’s chaffing worth a fuzzy head this morning? While she circumscribed the charlatans, the churlish, and the chauvinists of the burg, she allowed herself a bit of self-chicanery by trailing the A&B all night, and felt was if she was, if not a cipher, at least the last third of a trike. In theory, she is more chary about her time, wallet, and liver. Perhaps this cloying display of connivance deserves consummate repercussions, a condign headache for her lack of liquid continence. Last night’s colloquy deserves this morning’s comeuppance, correct? If nothing else, it will be a cogent reason for her to stay in all day. She will cogitate her actions at the gym, and with some celerity, let’s hope Elvis and Emma Lee get back in the game.
Emma Lee has been cheating on Elvis. The last few weeks she’s been dreaming about another, a man in a white linen suit. He’s lanky and wrinkled, casual and always happy to see her. Each night, she tries to quell her nervous, assuage the butterflies with a chant of “down, buddy, down.” He’s always coming towards her with a smile and a calloused hand stuck out, treading across wide, old hardwood floors in nice shoes. She sense they are in a downtown loft, but the walls are different each time, as are the chairs–wicker one day, Knoll the next. He’s not with his guitar and she not with her resume; theirs is an exchange of mutual interest and quiet excitement.
