Ink Flamingos by Karen E. Olson

on the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe blinked against the black sky across the way at Paris. The pink neon signs at the Flamingo flashed.
    Suddenly, I thought about Bixby.
    And I stopped.
    “No, I can’t,” I said softly.
    “Can’t what?”
    I merely shook my head and leaned my elbows on the railing, looking down at the Strip below, watching dark shadows of people passing by, the sounds of their laughter wafting up and into my ears.
    “What did you think you were going to do?” Harry asked, leaning next to me, his arm rubbing up against the Japanese koi on mine.
    Maybe he hadn’t really suggested anything and I’d been mistaken. Maybe I read him wrong. And I felt like a fool.
    But when I turned toward him again, his lips found mine and it was happening all over again.
    The flash startled me, and I pulled back, white dots in front of my eyes. “What was that?”
    Harry shrugged, straightening up. “Tourists, I guess. Taking pictures.” He indicated the Eiffel Tower.
    I knew that. I also knew I needed to get home. “I’m going to take a cab,” I announced, starting down the stairs, the outlines of the palm trees so sharp I could almost feel them cut me.
    I was moving fast; Harry had to jog to keep up with me. I stopped at the corner and held out my arm like I used to do in New York City when I wanted to hail a cab. But they kept passing me, ignoring me.
    “You’d do better going up to the Bellagio and having the doorman get you a cab,” Harry said.
    Okay, so he really was thinking more clearly than me. I didn’t respond, just started back toward the Italian palace that doubled as a resort casino. The fountains weren’t dancing now, but the lights were shimmering across the water. The wide driveway led to an elaborate entryway. All the doormen seemed to be helping actual guests.
    The lights from inside winked at me, much as Harry had just moments ago, and I went through the revolving door and stepped into the lobby. Hanging from the ceiling were glass flowers of all shapes and colors, forming a mosaic that bounced against my brain like a pinball, they were so sharp and clear.
    “Is it always like this?” I asked Harry as he stared, too.
    “I think it was commissioned.”
    “What?”
    “The glass flowers,” he said.
    “No, that’s not what I meant. It’s the way I feel. You know, the absinthe.”
    Harry grinned. “You’re high. Everything is clearer than normal—it’s like colors are jumping out at you. Yeah, it’s always like this.”
    At least it wasn’t just me.
    I whirled around. “I have to get a cab,” I said and went back out through the revolving doors.
    A doorman bowed slightly, as though I were some sort of royalty, although most likely he thought I was a hotel guest, who would have as much money as said royalty if the lobby were any indication.
    “Can I get a cab?” I asked him.
    “Certainly, miss.”
    At least he didn’t say “ma’am.”
    A yellow cab pulled up, and the doorman opened the door for me. I slid in across the seat, and just as the door was starting to close, it opened again and Harry plopped down next to me.
    “Figured we could share,” he said, shrugging.
    “I’m in Henderson,” I said.
    “Henderson?” the driver asked.
    Harry nodded. “You first, then I’ll take it from there.”
    He had that wad of bills, so I supposed he could afford it. “Sure,” I said, giving the driver my address.
    The cab started with a jolt, throwing me against Harry. He used it to his advantage and held on to me, his lips finding mine again. I settled in against him and closed my eyes.
     
    He was still kissing me. It wasn’t a dream. I pulled away and saw the cab was outside my house. I straightened out my shirt and reached in my bag. Harry waved me off. “Go. I’ll take care of it, okay?” And he kissed me again, lightly this time, before opening the door for me and letting me get out.
    The cab pulled away before I got to the front door. All the lights were on. I