The boy always dresses well. Everything he wears fits. Tailored suits and slacks. Matching ties and socks. Loafers buffed. Top hats for evenings out, smoker’s jacket for evenings in. Not many kids his age have a tailor on speed dial, but then again not many kids his age drink eighteen-year-old scotch.

Many nights pass the same way for twelve-year-old Vladimir Karlov. Walking from bar to bar, pleasuring in fine cigar smoke and single malt scotch, crooning over elegant waitress’s and bar maids as they dip their tightly covered asses in between and around absurdly small circular tables. Every once in a while an ass will bump one of those miniature tables and the woman will jump silently inside, breasts jolting in breath and ass clinching in flight. In an instant the table is solid again, no drinks are spilled, an innocent nudge is all, just enough to give the fellas a chance to get a quick word in about her name, her face, her smile, her situation.

The bartender’s name changes several times through the night, but Vladimir never takes the time to learn any. He calls them all Henry. “Henry,” he says, “another double, and tell the brunette with the nice rack down there at the end of the bar that I’d like to buy her a drink too.

Henry cracks the cubes of ice with the first pour and there at the end of the table, a brunette with a nice rack sips on another martini. Maybe dirty, maybe not, it’s all the same to Vladimir it’s all the same for him.

Vladimir sips on the scotch at first, real nice sips, taking in the aroma of the evening, taking in the aroma of the breasts that bob in and out of the those god damn miniature tables. He never sits at the tables. When you sit at the tables you have to be waited on. Vladimir was not one to be waited on. When born, he refused the nurse the privilege of cutting his umbilical cord. Vladimir took the scissors and cut the life line himself, then took a look at his wet little penis and gave the ol’ gal a wink. He could tell the nurse was interested from day one. Where is she now? Where is that ol’ gal at now?

The scotch straight from the bar was always tastier than at the tables. Less watered down. The women and their perking breasts watered them down with their luring mascara and red red lips. “You might as well be drinking water,” Vladimir says, “You might as well be sitting at home drinking water.” Vladimir was not one to sit at home and drink water.

“Henry, fill it up again, I feel like I just might want to stay awhile, and how about them rockets on the brunette down there, can she drink or what? Fill her up too. You know I never can turn down a lady with breasts like that. Never can turn ‘em down at all.”

Henry pours the clear brown liquid on, the ice doesn’t make noise, it’s already been warmed real nice. Vladimir pulls it back and drinks from the reflecting glass. “Sipping is overrated,” he’ll say later in the night.

“It seems that the ol’ gal with the rack likes butterflies, Henry.”

“She just might Vlad, she just might.”

“Tell you what I’m gonna do Henry.”

“What’re you gonna do, Vlad?”

“I’m gonna ask that girl if she likes butterflies, Henry.”

“Seems as good a question as any, Vlad.”

“Yep, I’m gonna ask the woman down there with the rack and the glass filled with welting olives, if she likes butterflies.”

“Seems as good a question as any indeed.”

Henry fills up the sweating glass. Vladimir takes it in and moves to the end of the bar.

Vladimir asks her about the butterflies. She thinks butterflies are lovely, quite lovely indeed. “I suspected as much,” he says. “Women like you always like butterflies.”

“Do they?”

“They sure do, and I like those kinds of women that like butterflies. Those kinds of women always have big breasts. Those kinds of women always have big breasts that fly. Henry, whaddaya say you get the lady another and get me one while you’re at it. She likes butterflies just like I said she would. How do you like that?”

“Sounds real nice Vlad, real nice indeed.”

“How come you’re not eating those olives young lady, how come you just leave them in your glass? I bet you don’t like olives, huh?  I bet you like cherries instead. Can you believe that, Henry?  The lady doesn’t like olives, loves cherries though. Most girls do, I guess. Butterflies and cherries, butterflies and cherries.”

At the next bar Henry wore a mustache.

The bar after that, suspenders.

After that, pin striped slacks.

White shoes.

Black hair.

And on and on.

On and on ‘til there was no description at all. Just a voice from far away. “Can I get you another, Vlad? Can I get you another?” And Vlad would nod and nod again, eyeing the next rack and winking at the next tearing line of fabric. It was warm all over and the smoke tasted sweet to his lungs. Sweet enough to kiss. Sweet enough to marry.

The smoke made the breasts perkier and his eyes narrower, while the martini glasses were empty and full, empty and full, and his belly was empty and full, empty and full. The only constant was those breasts. Those rockets. Those missiles. Those sculptures made to make.

Vladimir knew nothing about them, however. He only knew what he dreamed of by day and leered at by night. Walking up the avenues and across the boulevards. Under cobblestone bridges where they walked, covered up from the cold, but reaching all the same. Vladimir could see them as they passed. See them all. Smell them all. Warming ice and filling belly. Every night. Every day. Alone with everyone. Alone again.

“Henry, is that the lady that loved the butterflies?  I’ve had a few too many it seems and I can’t quite tell if that’s she.”

“It just might be, Vlad, it just might be.”

“I think it is, Henry, I think it is.”

“It just might be, Vlad, it just might be.”