It's cocktails after class and I can sense a hive of curls buzzing next to me. I look into her face and we're inside a Klimt painting. She tells me I'd be better off with my hair swept away from my face; I am at her complete mercy. She asks me on a date, and I say yes. She is putting my hair behind my ears for me, asking everyone for their approval. She pushes her glass up to the bar and they pour more white wine over her round, enormous rocks of ice. I eat an olive out of her martini glass. There are too many to count (but where are the martinis they came with)? Her card says "President" and she promises to send me an invitation to her show.
The student who brought me there, Ken, is drooling agape and telling her how much we both love fashion, while I apologize for him with my eyes, knowing I'd just told her otherwise. She smiles back. I can see now that she looks like a tiny rendering of Erykah Badu. Ken orders me another undrinkable cocktail. This one is orange in color. Ken has no idea what I like, I realize. Erykah Badu probably does.
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