Real Money

After he kisses me, Frank rubs his lipstick from my mouth with a Handi Wipe. He looks at me from between false eyelashes thick as horsehair. When he asks me what did you think of that, I smile. I say yeah, yes, good. I sound like I’m chewing rock salt. Frank unlocks the door.
The bar is emptying, but people still clock me wobbling downstairs. Frank is six-three in heels, auburn-wigged, and moves like a beauty queen. The name on the posters is Dolly Patrón, but Frank insists I call him Frank. He says he likes his boys to see past the dress and the tits. I can’t tell if he’s speaking figuratively or not. He puts a hand on my shoulder and steers me out from behind the bar. I realize suddenly how drunk I am. My hand finds a cigarette, then my mouth, then a light. The black lights waver behind the smoke. I try not to throw up in my mouth.
Frank tells me he’s moving to Atlanta to make real money. I don’t know what real money looks like but something’s keeping Frank in sequins. He asks if I need a ride home, and I say no, I live close. He gives me a look like I’m suggesting he doesn’t know where I live. I say I’m sorry, I’m too drunk. I break for the door and a cleaner, larger dark.
People on the street are eating burgers out of Styrofoam boxes. The boxes flap open like clamshells. A girl smirks at me over a handful of fries. I veer sideways, skirting the side of the building. I feel wax moving between my lips. When I lift my hand to touch
them, my fingers come away red.