Sugar Daddy
The week before Christmas, my friend arranged a blind date for me. In retrospect, she wanted to replace herself with me. Oysters, lobster thermidor, sherry trifle with silky custard in the Savoy Grill. He flattered, flirted, cupped me in his hands, filled me with fine wine, anesthetized me with champagne.
He gently pinned my thorax onto the crisp white sheet, spread my wings out wide and mounted me alongside memories of specimens similar to me. He changed my name to Mariposa, said it reminded him of Spain, writing it in italics underneath. He dressed me in Chanel, took me on a gastronomic tour of Michelin Stars, fed me Coq au Vin, at Chez Solanges from little copper pans, Coquilles Saint Jacques, at Overtons, in pretty scallop shells, and spooned me mouthfuls of velvet chocolate mousse. He fattened me like Hansel, my dress so tight, I dared not breathe, I had to starve myself on days between.
The week before Christmas, I asked a friend to lunch at the Savoy Grill to release myself and replace myself with her. Perhaps he’ll change her name.