Darren

Darren, who informs me he's
fresh from two years of abject failure in Vegas
("When I went, I had my own restaurant...
I left on a Greyhound bus with five dollars in my pocket"),
riding the #21 bus at 1AM with a black eye so severe
his whites are red and his pupil's white, says,
"Test my memory, Jill. Are you game?
Give me your phone number,
let's see if I can remember it."

I hope when he calls, he makes reservations for a Thursday,
that's a slow night at 612-870-1230.