"Do you know how handsome you are?"

Saturday night I spun fire in a white skirt under a black sky. I joined several other laughing naked bodies in a hot tub, steam in my lungs, hands on my shoulders. I danced and drank and celebrated with my fire family, and with friends old and new. I slept, spent, finally on a white rug. According to bystanders, a man and woman curled up with me while I slumbered. For nine to ten hours I had almost as much fun as humanly possible.

Sunday, I slept. A lot.

Monday night she cupped my face and told me "Do you know how handsome you are?" Standing there in my tank top, tousled hair, and five o'clcok shadow. She asked me it again, and I didn't answer. While I'm aware of it, I still don't Know it. (Chalk that up to an evening of low blood sugar getting in my way again). She left me, and then there were another pair of hands, running over my stubble the way you'd rub a shaved head. It felt about the same, good for both of us.

Bereft of food, I survived the night with spirits mostly intact, surfing on the waves of human compassion and touch and the beat of the music.

Do you know how handsome you are? If you don't know now, when will you? We're awaiting your answer.