After a few drinks we went to Webster Hall, a cavernous lair of prematurely streetwise Lolitas and hulking Italian guys in muscle shirts. There were numerous dance floors spread over three stories, but they all looked the same and played early '80s music. We found a couch where we could drink our $5 Rolling Rocks and Lyca told me about her life. Leon, she said, knew about her job and refused to come watch. Which was good, because she'd kind of lied about it -- suggesting she danced at a classy place, the kind where trade-convention types go to make deals and forget about their wives. "Leon's your boyfriend?" I asked. "I live with him. Boyfriend, fiance, I don't know. We call each other all sorts of things. When I'm being hit on I say he's my husband." "You didn't say that when you met me. How did you know I wasn't going to hit on you?" "I trust my instincts," she smiled. "I have good ones. I have to."
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