Blank stares, faithless, vampires at the same places. Shadows, traces, I know that you feel me. You're runnin' runnin' runnin' runnin', making the rounds with all your fake friends. Runnin' runnin' away from it....
My eyes scan the ungovernable crowd of sweaty bodies that pulsate in sync with the suffocating bass spilling out of overhead speakers. Though the club is dark, slices of neon purple and green strobe lights reveal unfamiliar faces that all ooze desperation. Whether desperate for a line of white powder snorted off of the back of a hand in the bathroom, just one more drink and a "yeah, I can drive", or a night of no-strings-attached sex that will be bragged about among groups of friends for days afterward - all of these unfamiliar faces are desperate for a kind of high that their weekly lives just can't give them.
I'm not like them; I'm not desperate, I think to myself as I down the rest of my Old Fashioned. How funny it is that my usual drink suddenly tastes overly sour and almost unbearable.
With a sigh, I slide my now empty glass to the other side of the table and sink lower into the booth seat. My eyes scan the crowd again. I try to ignore the feelings of disappointment and anger that threaten to cloud my judgment. Is tonight really going to be no different than the past four weekends? Is she really going to let me down again?
But then I see her. She's with a group of friends, as always, though there is only two or three of them that show up every week with her. I haven't cared to ever ask her what their names are. She barely tells me about herself, let alone the people that she shows up with.
As per usual, she leads them to the booth in front of me, where they all sit and debate on whether to buy a round of drinks first or head directly to the dance floor. Also per usual, she sits on the outside of the booth, with her back to me and her leg just barely jutting out from beneath the table.
As she engages in debate with her friends, I abandon my seat and walk towards her voice. Keeping my eyes on the neon red exit sign above the front entrance door, I let my fingertips brush against her thigh as I pass. Whatever she's wearing, it's short. I'm not even out of earshot before I hear her announce to her friends that she's getting a drink. My pace remains the same, even as she follows me, even as we pass the bar near the entrance, even as the dark, early morning air creates tiny mountains on my skin.
The further we walk away from the club and towards the empty strip mall parking lot across the street, the more distinct the clicking of her high-heeled shoes becomes. My car is the only vehicle in the parking lot, and I follow our routine by sliding in the back seat. She follows my lead, enveloping the inside of my car with the scent of her perfume that always seems to linger.
"Your friends seem chatty tonight," I break the slience without looking at her. "They don't usually seem to second-guess getting totally shit-faced."
There's a pause, as if she's waiting for me to say more. When I don't, she explains, "A couple of the girls pregamed before we picked them up. They don't exactly need more alcohol in them."
A longer silence falls over us. I can tell she's thinking too much by how she can't sit still. Her hands toy with the hem of her skirt that I can now see is black with an asymmetrical hem. It is short, just as I assumed, and my hand travels beneath the fabric against my better judgment. The sudden contact of my skin against hers elicits a squeal from her glossed lips.
"I know we don't usually talk to each other, but let me ask you a question." Despite my hand traveling further up her thigh, her eyes remain locked with mine. "Did standing me up for four weeks in a row give you some kind of satisfaction? Were you home alone, getting off to the thought of me waiting around here every fucking weekend for you, like some lost dog?" From beneath her skirt, my hand cups her hip, my thumb kneading circles into her skin. "Answer me, Demi."
