Plan B: Chapter 5

My date opens the door and I get into the limo.
Drunkenly, I muse to myself, “I didn’t know you could just get into a limo like this.”
A second later I hear someone yell, “Get the fuck out of the car!”
I guess you can’t.
I jump with surprise and scurry out, standing up so suddenly that I bump my head against the doorframe.
Stars. “Ow!” I yell, cradling my head.
“You better have not fuckin’ made a dent!” the irate chauffeur yells, his eyes nearly popping out of his head.
“No, I don’t think so. I’m sorry,” I say deferentially.
“Get away from the fucking car, alright!”
“Sure,” Ali smiles blithely, closing the door. “We’ll leave it alone. Peace, brother,” he says offering his hand.
The chauffeur sneers at the hand. He continues to stare us down as we pass him and keep walking up the street.
I met Ali earlier that evening while I was playing accordion at a restaurant. He said he loved how I played “La vie en rose,” and that the song “epitomizes romance.” I restrained myself from telling him that I’m so sick of playing “La vie en rose” that I can’t even stand to hear anyone talk about it. I thought he was cute, but I didn’t think that would be the best beginning.
“Can you walk?” Ali asks.
“Yes. Not straight, but yes, I can walk.”
“Because it’s a long way to the club,” he says.
It is a long way. Long enough for him to tell me about some of the pranks he attempted in his younger days. While on exchange in Germany, he stole the trophy off the hood of a Mercedes. There was a citizen’s arrest. People pinned him down and called the cops. Then he spent the night in a German prison. He reports all this like he’s still proud of it and would do it again. Not the most mature of men, I think to myself. But he’s cute. He looks exotic – ebony skin and Mediterranean hair. I’m not looking for my soulmate tonight. I’m looking for an adventure.
Finally we get to the club. The band is fantastic. Lively Eastern Gypsy music – the kind that makes a dancer out of anyone.
We skip towards the dance floor, but Ali stops suddenly.
“My ex-girlfriend is here,” he says.
A young, blonde woman looks over at him, jumps and squeals exuberantly. She bounces over to us, puts her arms around him and kisses him on the lips.
“My ex-girlfriend,” he yells in my ear when she lets go of him.
The “ex”-girlfriend gives me a look over. Oh, my God. How awkward. I look around for an escape route. Across the dance floor, I catch sight of a friend of mine, Steve. I am always happy to run into Steve, but at this moment, I feel positively ecstatic to see him.
I turn to Ali and say, “Look, I’m going to go and hang out with my friend over there, because this is too fuckin’ weird.”
I race up to Steve and poke his shoulder. “Martine!” he exclaims and gives me a big hug. He smells different, I think. More manly. A few months ago, Meagan changed her name to Steve, in honour of the gay Biblical figure. He changed a lot of other things too.
“How are you?” I ask.
“Really well. Looks like Deb will put up with me after all.” Deb didn’t know if she wanted to stay with Steve after the change.
“That’s great! So she may not be attracted to men generally, but she is attracted to you.”
“Guess so!” Steve smiles proudly. “What’s new with you?”
“Oh, God, not nearly so lucky in the love department.”
I tell Steve all about Ali, and point him out on the dance floor. Then I point out the girl bombarding him with kisses.
“And that’s his ‘ex’-girlfriend.”
“Well, jeez, I’m sorry. That’s shitty.”
I shrug.
“I should match you up with one of my friends. Fran