From Above the Treetops

I

Bodies. Bodies were everywhere. They pushed and rolled into one another in waves, moving in flashes of stark-white sea-foamed, strobed light. Limbs were tangled and blurred into one being; an amalgamated flesh grooving to the deafening drum and base remixes span by the hyper, flailing-limbed girl deejaying. I pushed further into the rat-king of clubbers, losing myself to the unity of the people; my autonomy surrendered to the waves.

Rainbow-coloured-lights shone in my eyes as they cut through the thick clouds of misty vapour, fragmenting light across the curves of our body. Freedom could be found in the synchronised, yet chaotic and wild, movements of the crowd. Trickling beads of sweat made their way down the forehead of the guy I was now dancing with and I duly noted how grateful I was that I didn't sweat like that.

His hungry eyes dragged over my body, heading up and up until they lamely settled on my lips. He pushed his body even closer to my own, his arms linking around my neck and his feet arching up in an effort to reach my face. His hot, laboured breath fanned against me as we danced, bringing my mind away from the room full of people. I craned my neck downwards, placing a soft, lingering kiss on his lips before nodding to the smoking room, implying that I'd be right back after a smoke.

There was no point in attempting any kind of verbal communication; he'd never hear me over the music. I felt his heart beat accelerate against my skin and I saw excitement glisten in his eyes as he dumbly nodded, desire emptying his mind of all thought and reason. Little did he know, I don't smoke; I just don't want to dance with him anymore.

I headed in the direction I had gestured to, ignoring his sultry wink as I left, before making a sharp left and disappearing into the crowd of moving bodies back towards the bar. He wasn't really my type and the sweat was starting to feel a bit much for me to handle. There was no short supply of men in here looking for a hookup, so I'm sure he'd be fine. I didn't feel bad at all about it.

Sure enough, I spotted the two people I was searching for taking up our regular booth, engaged in an animated conversation with a couple of strangers. It was far enough away from the dance floor that the music wasn't deafening but they were close enough to the bar that they could rope strangers into sitting down and chatting. Two girls were currently at our table: one leggy brunette and one blonde clad in a silky, white dress that clung to her hips. They were both leaning onto the table, listening tentatively to Mila and hanging on her every word as she spun some story. N.J looked rather disappointed about the lack of attention he seemed to be receiving, sat with his arms crossed and his lip jutted out in a comical fashion.

Could you blame them?

Mila was stunning to a supernatural standard. Her skin was a deep brown and dusted with little golden freckles across her broad nose and high cheekbones. Her curly, waist-length brown hair had bathroom-implemented blonde streaks and tiny braids dotted throughout that matched the ones in my own hair. She enjoyed making us match and bathroom-hairdressing is a keen hobby of hers. Ever since we were young, I have been treated like her own personal Barbie doll to dress up and play makeover with.

As I neared her, her warm eyes snapped away from the pretty blonde she was flirting with and settled on me with a dimpled smile. She slid over in the booth to make room almost instantly, slapping her hand repeatedly on the leather seats enthusiastically to invite me to sit down. N.J's mood seemed to improve now that I was here as backup.

"Save me! Seeing her flirt is making me nauseous; she's practically my sister. Plus, she's hogging all of the attention!" N.J complained, dramatically pretending to gag as if he was physically repulsed.

"You're not even old enough to be here, let alone talk to any girls." Mila tutted, "Nobody wants to babysit the sixteen year old."

N.J slumped in his seat once again at that, glaring at Mila, albeit not maliciously. What she was saying was true; N.J was far too young to be trying it on with these women. He looked a little older than he was, enough that we could sneak him into the eighteen-plus club in the first place, but Mila and I would never let him act older than he is. Despite him only being a few years younger than us, he's always filled the little brother role in our trio of friends, and so he is treated as such.