“Oh, I don’t think so,” I say. “Not tonight.”
She affects a heartbroken expression. “Justin, por favor. It’s good music tonight, and such a handsome man on the dance floor, eh?” She elbows me. “Eh?”
I nod agreement. But: “He’s not here to dance with me.”
She shrugs. “He’s here to dance. Did you come here to sit?”
Not necessarily, but it’s not like I’m hating the show. He’s older than me, better looking, in way better shape, and a much better dancer—he’s certainly more fun to watch than to try to stack up against. I don’t say this, but Carlotta reads the ticker tape of my thoughts and curls an unimpressed lip. “You’re a better dancer than you think you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Well, you’ll never get better just sitting here.” She signals Milton. He fills three shot glasses with a hazy mo
