I walk into the embalming room and see that I know this corpse.

He came into Stallions every Tuesday, sat at the same table in the darkness between the stage and the bar, and ordered a Miller High Life with a chaser of Jim Beam, which he nursed all night long. We nicknamed him Thirsty.

I danced privately for him a few times, although I wasn’t his favorite. I was too dark for his taste. He said he had a thing for cool blondes like Jean Harlow. But I amused him, he said.

We competed to see if any of us could get him to buy a second shot of Jim Beam, which was usually gone before the Miller. The customary stuff never worked on him: stroking his arm, telling him you were so sad at having to drink alone, coyly questioning him about why he couldn’t have a second. He never took the bait.

One night, I asked him if he knew anything about embalming. That got his attention. I told him I had a quiz the next day, so I’d be happy to tell him about it. He scooted his chair back from the table a bit and said, “Why not?”

I took his shot of Jim Beam, which was still almost full, and told him to pretend it was formaldehyde.

“OK,” he said.

“First,” I said, “the blood is removed from the veins.”

“All right,” he said.

“Then, it is arterially replaced with formaldehyde,” I told him, putting the shot glass up to his lips and pouring a bit into his mouth.

“The formaldehyde is injected into the body usually right around here,” I said, making a circle with my finger on his skin next to his collarbone and pouring a little more Jim Beam into his mouth as I leaned in close. “And it is distributed throughout the body by intravascular movement to extravascular movement, like this,” and I lifted his shot glass high in the air and poured the rest of it into his mouth.

“Do you know what a trocar is?” I asked.

“No,” he said.

“You’ll need to fill this up so I can give you the proper visual,” I said.

“Use my beer,” he told me.

“It won’t be the same,” I told him.

“It’ll be good enough,” he said.

I drew him a picture of a trocar on a cocktail napkin, and explained how it was inserted in the body to remove liquids and gasses from the organs and how embalming fluid then was poured into the trocar. I picked up a drink stirrer from the next table, stuck it in his beer, and told him to drink. “Like that,” I said. “And that’s pretty much it.”

“That’s embalming,” he said.

“Yep, basically it coddles and distracts the cells so that decomposition is arrested.”

“Just like you do,” he said.

“Just like I do,” I said.

The D.J. called my name, so I took the stage, unhooking my bra, and exposing my breasts as the music began. I slid my hand from my breast to my navel, pressing the spot with my fingertips where the trocar would be inserted – mouthing “trocar” in his direction, which made it look like I was blowing him a kiss.

From then on out, he called me Formaldehyde. And every so often I sent him over a second Jim Beam, which he never touched.

His body –the one that is now on view – has been scrubbed down with disinfectant. I massage his arms to relieve the rigor. His face is smooth and shaved clean.

I am supposed to clean the room before the embalmer comes in. I set down my cleaning supplies and lock the door. I drag a chair over in front of him and stand on top of it. I know his eyes have already been glued shut, but I want to say good-bye. I slowly remove my jeans, my shirt, my bra – balancing on the chair. I think about singing something, but I’m afraid someone will hear me. I stand on the chair in front of him, naked. He lies on the table in front of me naked. And I whisper, “trocar,” which makes it look like I am blowing him a kiss.