| “Hi
Gray, It’s me, Donna. I’m at Café Noir with
a friend of mine from London, Christina. She’s visiting for
a few days, and we want to go out later on tonight, and we were
wondering what you were up to. It’s 8:30 now. We’ll
probably be here for a while. You can call me on my cell. It’s
917 334-0943. We were thinking about Sway or that new place on
West Broadway, I can’t remember what it’s called, 442?
342? Or is it 357? Anyway, call me when you get home. OK? Bye.”
I was so absorbed in her voice and the background sounds that
I forgot to jot down the number. So I jerked myself foreword
towards the machine, aiming for pause, but I hit record instead.
Instinctively, I hit stop to correct my mistake, and then play
out of desperation, hoping to clear the whole mess I created
and get back to the message.
“So what’s this guy’s deal?” I heard
one voice ask.
“Gray? Oh, Gray’s a real player. He promotes the hottest
nights in the city, he always wears shades in dark places, always
tries to kiss you on the lips when you give him your cheek. You
know the type?”
Laughter. “God, how cheesy, so what’s the story?
Are you sleeping with him?” the first voice asked.
“God no.” The second voice replied, which I now confirmed
was Donna’s. “I talk to him on the phone once in a
while to keep in the loop of where the good parties are at, that’s
all. He’s kind of dumb, but also kind of funny. You’ll
like him, actually. I’m sure we’ll meet up with him
later. He always calls me back. But hey, don’t leave me alone
with him, OK? I don’t want to be cornered. He can get pushy
sometimes when he’s drunk, and I find him kind of slimy.”
|
