"You look like shit," I asked. He did look a little pallid.
"Thank you. You look great, too."
"Sorry," I said. That was a rude thing to say. "You feeling better?"
"Yeah, I feel human. Except the knee." He paused, and I hesitated before I reached into my pocket. Just call me Sucker.
"Hereās the number for Ericās office. Eric Lewis. Just donāt mention that you know me." He took the note.
"Uh, I forgot to thank you for the massage the other night," he said, sheepishly.
"No problem." I replied, surprised at his genuineness. I see the collective eyes of all the women and some of the men in the class widen as Mike takes his pose on stage, and wish I couldāve seen him dance.
"Wanna go for a drink?" he asked me after class.
"Yeah, sure," I replied, my heart secretly in a flurry.
"Hereās to New Yearās in New York," Mike toasted with a shot of tequila and a beer. We were in some straight bar, a dive near the art center.
"I need a fucking real job, man. I canāt stand this modeling nude thing any longer." he said to me
"What do you want to do?" I asked
"DANCE, man. Iām a fucking dancer. Do you know why Iām not dancing?" he asked. I shook my head. "Because, some fucking pansy asses say Iāve got a bad knee and a bad attitude. Shit."
I let the Īpansy assā comment go. He was hurt. And angry. I felt bad for the guy. Like an artist who finds out he canāt paint anymore, he was in pain.
"Mike, maybe you should slow down, finish your beer." I suggested.
"Greg, this is the holiday season! Here man, have some cheer," he said and handed me a tequila. 
