The old Czech men were drunk and tired of serving us, but liked our money too much. They preferred we pour ourselves and leave money on the counter. You and I were glory-drunk, stupid even, and complained that the humidity after the rain drowned out the smell of roses that came down from the Petrin. Like bad sex. The old Czech men thought we were too loud, even for Americans. Only tourists would complain about rain after a drought, and besides, it was better than the executions. Then it was quiet. After some time the old Czech men started watching porn, so we spoke louder, you telling me, This is the kind of shit the boys fantasized about back at base, as you rolled up your pant leg to show me the scar above your ankle. It was almost silver, still tender, spasming from touch like a snake. Got fucked hard. Couldn’t walk straight for damn near a year. First I was numb and then warm. I remember being thirsty. Yeah, it didn’t hurt initially, not until later. Then it never stopped hurting. I must have been a disappointing audience, growing tired of the pilsner, thinking Becherovka would make me more interesting. I settled for wine. Everything was just so goddamn heavy. Yes, the gear and equipment, but everything and the sun. We went on like this for hours until you got blubbery. You spent the rest of the night comparing a past partner to Rioja; the old Czech men told us to expect more rain. It was hard walking home, the new sun coming down on our slow, unadorned bodies.

For the last time I am ferried through a dim hallway by the lit wick of a ruffled red dress, a wax stalagmite molded into the brick of a subterranean karaoke bar from years of burning candles. I already know what I want to sing, but DJ Alfons has different plans. We’ve worked out a system: he yells at me when he wants to hear American music. He calls me Ambassador. Ambassador of blue jeans and pop music. Mountain Mama, he once yelled over British tourists when he wanted to hear John Denver, elbowing into one of their ribs and pointing, he’s from there! I’m not. He knows this, but truth only gets in the way of his myth. His underworld, where the cries of the damned loosen the cobblestone in the alley above, and where trickery is both a crown and a currency. Unlike Orpheus, I never had any intention of retracing my steps. I was happy to stay and sung only to sing. Karaoke as end in itself. Alfons never checked to see if I knew a song beforehand. Here is where I learned the words to “Kiss from a Rose.” Trial and error. The first time he called me a Bitch I didn’t know he wanted to hear Meredith Brooks. On my last night he switched songs on me, and I called him unusually petty as I let the instrumental to “American Girl” go on without a voice to guide it. Alfons let it play in its entirety as he bought me my last pilsner in Prague. He placed two silver crowns over his eyes, Cab fare, and dropped one into his mug and one into mine. The coins, free to fall, kept still in the foam, suspended like a ballad. Don’t choke, and they dropped with a clink.