But Yes: Celine Dion at Little Caesar’s Arena

These seats blow.

I’m sitting on a fucking wall, slanting down at like a 80 degree angle, suspended fifty feet above the arena floor.

Fuck this. If I stay, my anxiety won’t let me enjoy anything.

I’m already two drinks in, rum and Coke. I bail, taking a place in the short line outside the box office downstairs.

I see her come down the escalator. She’s in a low-cut cocktail dress, siren red. Olive skin. Evil eyes. Fuck, she’s hot. She looks like an assassin sent to seduce and kill James Bond halfway through the movie.

She’s talking to me. We’re in line together. She’s there with her mom. She hates their seats, which are also in the upper levels. It’s her mom’s birthday. She’s Turkish. She owns a catering company. She’s probably like 28 but gets pissed when I ask her age. She pours some of her Cognac in my empty rum and Coke cup.

“Who are you here with?” she asks in her sultry accent.

“No one,” I admit.

“Oh, you are that kind of man.”

I still haven’t learned her name.

Celine takes the stage, her distinctive voice reverberating through the arena walls.