Masterson

ELIZABETH

Three Weeks Later

VIBRATIONS OF BASS HEAVY techno music pulse throughout my sweat covered body as I twirl and gyrate my body in the middle of the dance floor. I'm a pro at this, so I'm careful not to spill a drop of the merlot that swishes around in my wine glass as I get my groove on. I just hold the glass high and close to my ear while my hips and feet do all the work of keeping to the monotonous but primal beat that is driving all the demons right out of my soul. It's been three weeks, give or take a day, since I woke up with the worst headache of my life and my life in shambles. For just one night though, I don't want to think about any of that. For just one night, I want to dance.

I'm starting to think the deejay is my soul mate or a simply brilliant human being, because when my favorite part of the song comes on he performs a variety of scratches on his computerized turntables to extend that portion of the song, and I frackin' love him for it. I throw back my wine glass and take a long final sip, placing the empty glass on the nearest littered high-top table; and then I begin to truly offer myself like a Santeria sacrifice over to the music. All I need is a long white flowing dress and a live chicken.

Unlike some of my body thrashing counterparts who basically lose their minds when the computerized beat comes on, I close my eyes, raise my arms high above my head, and slowly sway my very pear shaped hips to the bottom of the song. The bass. As I do, I can feel the vino traveling intravenously through my veins relieving me of all my anxiety and insecurities. It feels good. No it feels great.

Unfortunately my euphoria comes to a screeching halt, when I start to feel the large body of an intoxicated stranger slowly dancing up behind me. Initially my body tightens in fear, but because I don't want to overreact in public, I decide not to respond immediately to his presence. Not every stranger is out to hurt me. I need to remember that if I'm going to live in the world.

I consider the fact that in a club where most dancers are moving at the speed of a Zumba class, my dancing can appear more slow and sexual than the average person's, and that's why I make the decision to cut the drunk guy some slack. Plus this is the best part of the song. I want to finish enjoying it. Unfortunately the dickwad takes this as some sort of approval to move things a step further, and that's when I feel the drunken stranger up on my ass.

I know his hands are probably going to be next.

Sure enough, I feel a hand firmly start to grip the left side of my hips, and can feel one of his sweaty fingers touching the exposed skin above my waistline (thanks to the halter top I'm wearing). So I stop dancing, turn around, and see the red-nosed face of a kid who probably isn't even twenty-one yet and hasn't quite learned when he's reached his limit. I use my pointer finger to call him over even closer so he can hear me. He doesn't seem to understand that I'm annoyed, because he has a wide grin plastered across his face, when it's blatantly obvious that I don't.

"Are you drunk?" I ask him like I'm his older sister.

"Not yet, gorgeous," he says in a drunk, flirty voice.

"Well listen up, junior, this is a solo gig," I tell him in his ear. "I don't need a partner."

The look on the kid's face is priceless. He's embarrassed, and I think he starts to look around to make sure that no one heard what I just said to him. As if someone could actually hear me over the high decibel level of the music or even see us in this dim lighting. He's not a jerk about what I just said to him though. He gives me a slight head nod, turns, and walks off the dance floor. Confrontation averted.

It's at that exact moment that I consider just for a moment that maybe the kid had it right. Maybe someone was watching us, because I swear that I can feel the stare of a faceless shadow in a far corner of the club. To the left of the main bar.