Chapter 89

           

           Ican’trememberthelasttimeIgotdressedup,butthiseveningIdugoutmyonefancyspaghetti-strapdressfromthebottomofmybackpackandslitherediton.Ievenworelipstick.Ican’trememberthelasttimeIworelipstick,butIknowitwasn’tanywherenearIndia.IstoppedatArmenia’shouseonthewayovertotheparty,andshedrapedmeinsomeofherfancyjewelry,letmeborrowherfancyperfume,letmestoremybicycleinherbackyardsoIcouldarriveatthepartyinherfancycar,likeaproperadultwoman.

           Thedinnerwiththeexpatriateswasgreatfun,andIfeltmyselfrevisitingalltheselong-dormantaspectsofmypersonality.Ievengotalittlebitdrunk,whichwasnotableafterallthepurityofmylastfewmonthsofprayingattheAshramandsippingteainmyBalineseflowergarden.AndIwasflirting!Ihadn’tflirtedinages.I’donlybeenhangingaroundwithmonksandmedicinemenlately,butsuddenlyIwasdustingofftheoldsexualityagain.ThoughIcouldn’treallytellwhoIwasflirtingwith.Iwaskindofspreadingitaroundeverywhere.WasIattractedtothewittyAustralianformerjournalistsittingnexttome?("We’realldrunkshere,"hequipped."Wewritereferencesforotherdrunks.")OrwasitthequietintellectualGermandownthetable?(Hepromisedtolendmenovelsfromhispersonallibrary.)OrwasitthehandsomeolderBrazilianmanwhohadcookedthisgiantfeastforallofusinthefirstplace?(Ilikedhiskindbrowneyesandhisaccent.Andhiscooking,ofcourse.Isaidsomethingveryprovocativetohim,outofnowhere.

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