On The Verge. Ariella Papa

      “C’mon, there’s so many other places. Both of us are a little weary. We just want to sit and drink and not have to worry about anyone looking at our breasts.” Roseanne nods in agreement, probably too scared to say anything.

      “Why not?” Tabitha is confused.

      “Tabitha, at least think of Jaques. We don’t want a meat market.”

      We wind up at Peter McManus. It’s an Irish pub with a kickass jukebox. This is the type of place that I would think Tabitha would hate, but she gets up and puts at least two dollars in the jukebox. She keeps telling us we are going to love her selections. When each song ends we pause and look to Tabitha for a word on whether the new one is one of her choices. It’s always a good one, but never one of the ones she picked.

      We drink a lot while waiting for her songs to come on.

      While Rosie is in the bathroom, I ask Tabitha if she’ll call Johann, the German banker.

      “Eve, what about my feelings? I’m just getting over one European.”

      “Tabitha, you don’t have to date him, just give him a call.”

      “You never tire of testing me. Oh, God.” She gets up. “Shit, shit. This is it. My song.” I leap up, too. It’s “Suspicious Minds” by the King himself. We start dancing and dancing and when Roseanne comes out she starts dancing, too. Some of the regulars look over at us and laugh. They sing along, but it’s just kind of us, fucking up the words, making up dance moves. It’s a good drunk.