Alan had to force
himself not to stare after her as she walked into the kitchen, carrying
yesterday's dishes down from her room; then out again, with a sandwich
on a fresh plate. Her curly hair bounced as she stomped back and forth,
her soft, round buttocks flexing under her long-johns.
On the night that Alan and Natalie put the first coat of paint on the
wall, Mimi came down in a little baby-doll dress, thigh-high striped
tights, and chunky shoes, her face painted with swaths of glitter.
"You look wonderful, baby," Natalie told her as she emerged onto the
porch. "Going out?"
"Going to the club," she said. "DJ None Of Your Fucking Business is
spinning and Krishna's going to get me in for free."
"Dance music," Link said disgustedly. Then, to Alan, "You know this
stuff? It's not playing music, it's playing *records*. Snore."
"Sounds interesting," Alan said. "Do you have any of it I could listen
to? A CD or some MP3s?"
"Oh, *that's* not how you listen to this stuff," Natalie said. "You have
to go to a club and *dance*."
"Really?" Alan said. "Do I have to take ecstasy, or is that optional?"
"It's mandatory," Mimi said, the first words she'd spoken to him all
week. "Great fistfuls of E, and then you have to consume two pounds of
candy necklaces at an after-hours orgy."
"Not really," Natalie said, *sotto voce*.
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