(Originally published in BUST Magazine, 1995) I knew the minute it started. We were at that bar, The No-Tell Motel, and he did his trick with the coin.  He can flip a coin through his fingers, over the tops of his knuckles, smooth.  I suppose I once found this novel. They were sitting just too close on the sofa, trading hot shoulder, and I was smoldering deeper into my vinyl stool, getting sticky and drunk.  It was a Friday night.  Fuck Night.  2:30 AM.  I saw him slide the quarter slyly from his pocket. “Plato was a fascist,” he told her, shooting his cuffs.  “He thought he could dictate reality.” I watched the coin flash and turn, admired his technique.  She looked lamb-like up at him, nodded yes.  And so, she was his for the having.   “Katz wants to have sex with you,” I told her.  We’re candid like that. “What, are you kidding?”  Her tinny, cordless voice pitched up a little at the high end.  So she already knew.  “No...