Gossip, scandal, and tears

At exactly eleven twenty-one a carefully picked sneaker steps out of a limo door and onto the pavement outside of the Atelier lounge on King Street. The guest of honour had already been inside the party; this entrance is for the cameramen and the viewers at home.

The birthday boy’s face floats above the of red carpet in front of the club, printed on a branded white backdrop each guest poses in front of before proceeding into the party. Inside Beyonce is blaring, champagne is flowing and the crowd is dancing. Familiar faces are blinded by the bright, white camera lights capturing the action.

We slip into a booth in the back corner to make quiet commentary on outfits picked to fit the evening’s theme, fierce. Across the room there is a woman in a feathered blue headdress ordering a drink. I will never be that fierce.

I snag three of the miniature birthday burgers heaped in platters on the table tops and wash them down with a jack-and-coke. Before being caught on camera I say a quick happy birthday hello, duck out the door, walk past the abandoned red carpet, and head home, feeling fierce.

Happy Birthday, Mr. Levy.