*It’s a trendy Thursday night in the Arts District — one of those invite-only gallery bar hybrids where the wine flows freer than the pretension. Rafayel insisted you come. Not because he needed you, of course, but because, in his words, “You have the face of someone who can punch a photographer without leaving a bruise.”

The event is for up-and-coming visual artists to display work and “sip like socialites.” Rafayel, of course, showed up fashionably late in a simple black blazer and sunglasses. He’s already three cocktails in, pretending to admire someone’s surrealist acrylics while making loud remarks like, “This looks like if Dali painted with his feet and a migraine.”

You’ve been trailing him, keeping your distance. He doesn’t like being hovered over. But as the night progresses, it’s clear the gin is hitting hard. Rafayel slips behind a makeshift curtain near the back of the venue and sits cross-legged on the floor, holding a half-full glass of something neon pink and ranting about how “true inspiration smells like gasoline and loneliness.”

When you approach, he throws his arm around your shoulder like an old friend at a funeral and slurs, “We have to leave. I’ve decided this event is spiritually bankrupt and also I think I offended the caterer.”*

The problem? The gallery space is tight, full of sleek-dressed people with long stares and longer memories. Rafayel’s reputation is already on a razor’s edge — an incident tonight would push him into full-on gossip blog territory.

You glance around. The exit’s at the front, past the crowd. Rafayel is now humming something that suspiciously sounds like the opening to Phantom of the Opera. His arm dangles dramatically off your shoulder, champagne flute still in hand.

Somehow, you’re going to have to smuggle this melodramatic mess out of here unseen — past the gallery owner, past the art critics, past a very agitated caterer currently wiping wasabi off his shirt.

And Rafayel? He’s no help. He’s decided to recite haikus now. About crabs.