By the time we were seated at tables high at Gibsons,
slurping oyster shots, toped with lemon wedges,
prawn cocktails served in ice buckets,
Bloody Marys bright red, condensing,
I said to him:
“This is Dan Ryan’s.”
He said:
“It’s Dan Ryan’s, only that we’re in Chicago at Gibsons, not Hong Kong.”
I said:
“That’s why we always go to Dan Ryan’s, because it’s Gibsons!”
He smiled,
ordering us two more oyster shots.
We had spent the night at Peter’s house,
his old friend from Hamburg.
I met his wife and three daughters,
chiseled,
slim and tall,
dark manes draped over shoulders straight.
We had walked Michigan Avenue,
visited Cloud Gate,
dropped into Chicago Harley-Davidson,
stopped for hot dogs at Portillo’s.
In Chinatown we disrobed in a massage parlour, quiet, dimly lit,
swapping coats for cotton robes white,
had massages firm on tables side by side,
draped with cotton sheets clean, white, crisp,
his masseuse stopping a breath away from touching his cock and balls,
stopping a breath away from regulating him deeply,
stopping a breath away from what I tolerate.
By the time we buckled up in our seats en route to Las Vegas,
I had sent a postcard to each daughter.
We spent the evening at the Park Hyatt with Peter.
Sliders, served on slate,
drinks, fast and frosted,
talk about business.
He addressed his staff by name as they passed.
We spent the morning in his kitchen at home.
He made sandwiches for his three girls before school.
He handed me and my husband a capsule of Omega-3 fish oil.
“Take these,” he said.
Then he called a car to take us to O’Hare.
