Vegas, you and I were supposed to meet and fall ironically in love. I was supposed to giggle at your poor taste and you were supposed to sling your arm around my shoulders and look at me over the top of your sunglasses. We would slouch our way through casinos with our bedroom hair, you in your plaid pants and me in something revealing. We were going to canoodle at the bars. We were going to lose a little money and win a little more than that, just to take the edge off. You would bring me drinks with umbrellas and I would flirt with older men from Topeka. We’d catch a show and you’d get picked out of the audience, blow me a kiss from the stage.
Our love affair would be brief but last in our memories, a happy fling one weekend in the sand.
But you were not what I thought you’d be, Las Vegas. You were not ironic. You were not retro. You were garish. Garish like baby Jesus and Santa on the same Christmas lawn. You were tacky. Tacky like a plastic sofa cover. I was ready to accept your unsuspected depth without proof, but no: you kept pushing and pushing until I knew you were tawdry and shallow. Why did you do it? I gave you nothing but imagined affection. Ah, Lost Vegas indeed!
Displaced 
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