The beggar comes towards the terrace. His words float upward lost in the blare of music,
chosen by an aging host hell bent on slowing down his waning vitality. He holds the hand
of his young second wife as though she is an emblem, like the BMW Sport he feels he
deserves. After all, he worked hard for years to raise three children. Not to mention the
stressed out fifty-two-year old wife he’d put up with when he struggled. When money
was short. When he had nothing but a small house and an old car that wouldn’t start most
winter mornings.
“She wanted to stay in the suburbs and I had a life in the city,” he says and pats the hand
of his new wife's hand.
“Yes,” she says, gazing at him. “I saved him.”
She smiles at him as he reaches into the pocket of his Armani jeans and pulls out a few coins.
He tosses them into the air. They spin and sparkle in the moonlight for a second then fall
like lead to the ground. The beggar drops to his knees, searches the grass blade by blade
next to a black poodle sniffing the urine of some wild animal.
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