It’s ridiculous.
My brow wrinkles as a whiff of something reaches my nose, and I lean in closer. Either Honey must have sprayed it with that flowery scent of hers or it’s just an effect of the paper having been in her general vicinity.
I should throw it away.
But I leave it.
The music suddenly shifts, now playing something that has a Latin rhythm, slow and sensual.
Despite myself, I find it appealing, standing in place long enough to listen for a bit.
I quickly snap out of it, realizing that what I should be doing is going to bed.
Though, it wouldn’t hurt to walk across the hall if only to tell my neighbor to turn the music down a little.
I shrug out of my overcoat, hanging it up on the hooks by the door.
I don’t know if the party is formal or not, but I can’t be bothered to change just to walk six feet across the hall and request some peace and quiet.
When I knock on Honey’s door I make sure it’s loud enough to rise above the music and chatter. It takes a moment. Just when I’m about to knock again, the door suddenly flies open.
I’m left temporarily paralyzed, speechless…breathless.
Honey greets me with that same smile that perks up my mornings.
But this vision of pink is nothing like the usual. Her dress is spectacular, and she looks spectacular in it. Even I can tell it must have cost a fortune, but whatever she paid for it, it was worth it.
“Ohh girl, it’s about time we had some sausage at this party! Especially meat that looks this tasty.”
That rudely snaps me out of my hypnosis and my eyes (reluctantly) tear away from Honey to find…yet another surprise.
Despite the over-the-top makeup, the person standing next to her is obviously a man. He (she?) is dressed in a skintight, hot pink, sequined gown, and platform stilettos that have him towering over everyone, even me. The massive wig of tiny black curls adds a few inches to that.
“You quit that now, Jheri,” Honey scolds with a laugh, slapping him on the arm. “You’re going to scare him away. This is the neighbor I was telling you about.”
The man (Jerry?) turns to give Honey an accusatory look. “Don’t tell me your ass has been worried about no Francis when you had this right here not six feet away—complete with his own bed.”
That creates a quick but colorful snapshot of Honey in my bed.
The name “Francis” erases it before it can have an unfortunate physical effect on me.
Who the hell is Francis?
“If you’re going to be debauched in front of my guests I’m forbidding you from door duty,” Honey warns her friend.
“Jerry” purses his lips and rolls his eyes. Then he holds out one large hand toward me, like some socialite. “I’m Jheri Gurl, Miss Gurl if you’re nasty.” He winks and titters.
“Jheri, this is Jesse Castiglione,” Honey says, enunciating my last name enough for me to divert my attention to her. Usually when someone takes pains to pronounce it in such a way, it’s meant to be an insult. The way it falls from her tongue makes it seem like she’s bestowing a prestigious title. “Jesse, this is Jheri Gurl, otherwise known as Jerome Maples.”
“Oooh, and he’s Italian to boot! How’d you know that was my favorite flavor?”
Her friend has the effect of reminding me why I stalked across the hall in the first place.
“Listen, I just came over to—”
“Get that glass of champagne I owe you,” Honey finishes, slinking one arm around mine and leading me in. As though reading my original intention, she continues on so I can’t get a word in edgewise. “I honestly didn’t think you’d come, but I’m glad you did. I always think it’s nice to have a good mix of people at these things. It opens up the dialogue. It reminds me of the Paris salons from long ago. And let me tell you, Jesse, ironically enough, you may be the most interesting one here tonight. Don’t let Jheri scare you, he’s really a gem. He just likes attention is all.”
Once again the scene inside her apartment surprises me. This time I’m less impressed than last time.
I feel like I’ve stepped foot into a circus.
In one tent I see a handful of drag queens. In another are people my mother would refer to as “arty,” in a tone that imparted exactly what she thought of such people.
Then there are women who are each stunning in their own way. There’s something about the three of them that shines brighter than the rest of the attendees—Honey excepted, of course. It’s as though their aim is deliberately to seduce. I can’t deny that even my eye is drawn to each of them, though I can’t put my finger on why.
The blonde, who looks like a perfect doll in a billowy, light blue ballgown.
There’s a redhead who looks like Jessica Rabbit in a green dress instead of red.
And the Latina who is the center of attention at the moment.
“That’s ‘Historia De Un Amor’ playing. Esmerelda’s song of course,” Honey says, following my gaze.
The gorgeous woman with dark hair and a backless, black lace dress that could easily cast a spell on a man has managed to capture every eye in the place. She snakes her body along to the sensual melody like a combination snake and charmer in one, leaving everyone mesmerized.
“Isn’t she divine?”
Honey’s voice snaps me back to attention, my gaze darting back to her, where it gets even more lost.
If Esmerelda is “divine” then Honey is a goddess. I think of all the flies that meet their doom in that thick, luscious ooze, only to die happy, and sense maybe the name is less ridiculous than I originally thought.
I’m annoyed to find that she has already poured a glass of champagne for me while I was lost in a state of disorientation. I’m even more pissed to find that the glass
