One More Party Girl

People tend to go a little crazy at the sight of some red hair. Personally, I don't think I'm to blame, either for that reaction or for the ways I benefit from it. I consider it karmic repayment for years of pinches and bullying when I was young. All the same, I won't deny that I benefit from it. In a city where a couple with two decently sized incomes can still be struggling to get by, things have never seemed too dire. It's not like I'm flush with cash or that there aren't stressors. I just know how to live within my means while having a good time. Having hair like mine helps, is what I'm saying.

Maybe this reference will be lost on you, dear reader, but it's like the cars in rap videos. Who wants to risk their own fancy car when all they need it for in the video is as a set piece for a model to dance next to? The artists at the top of the charts might have stuff in their garage that's similar, but even then it's easier to borrow one. And even a guy uploading his stuff to SoundCloud can afford to rent a decently nice car for an afternoon if they promise the real owner that they won't actually put the key in the ignition. The girls who like to live it up in the city are like rappers: what seems shiny on the surface can flake off with the application of a nail for scratching. But I love it anyway.

It's also true that the last few years since graduation, when I moved to the city, haven't been spectacular in a professional sense. My day job is as an editor at a low end publishing company, which is within eyeshot of the kind of work I could see myself doing in the long term, but it's part time and not well paid at that. There are always shifts at local bars and cafés if I need some more money. And, of course, the occasional favors from what you could call admirers. Being realistic for a second, I have five or six years left where I could live like this. Despite what the men on the internet tell you, a lady doesn't fall to pieces the moment she turns thirty, like some kind of Cinderella for incels. And I have friends who enjoy a life of luxury well into their forties or beyond, but they need to be much more determined about their lifestyle. That's not me. I do yoga and pilates a few times a week, and I like following fashion and beauty trends, but these are personal interests. I'd feel the same even if I didn't benefit.

This is a bunch of preamble so that you can understand me better before we dive into the real substance of this story. I wouldn't be telling it if I didn't think it was worth reading. It was the end of autumn when things started getting stranger–and I'm not just jumping at shadows. The real story begins with a night at Le Mythe, a nightclub…

-Sweat-

No way they were enforcing the fire code tonight. I had five hundred bodies pushed up against me, and there were five hundred more within five feet. Or so it seemed. And we were on the upper level, dancing on the glass floor that divided us from the everyday people down below. Le Mythe was not the place to go if you're the type to worry about someone seeing up your skirt. And I wasn't. I'd shaved my legs for just this occasion. The dress was silver, practically gleaming–when it caught the light through the banks of sweat-fog.

-Sound-

I knew that when I stepped outside my ears would pop like I was coming down from a mountain. Rumor had it that Le Mythe's owner had an in with the mayor, and the police wouldn't come to complain about anything less than a sonic boom. If I were more responsible I'd have ear plugs in, but I gave up on those three months after moving to the city. A little late-in-life hearing loss was worth it to have the music burn itself into your bones. You could see it in the drinks people tried to hold above the crowd.

There was another woman up against me. I could barely see her with the scattered shots of light, but I could hear her. When my hands wrapped around her hips she laughed, pushed closer to me, let me hear her breathe. The sound all around us seemed to fade.

And there was a man behind me, too. Tall, and dark. I'd barely caught sight of him when he started kissing my neck. If I'd come here with anyone else I would worry this stranger trying to inch his fingers up my dress would endanger my rapport. But Luke, high above us even on the glass floor of the second level, barely bothered to look down at us from the catwalk. I was his arm candy tonight so he could look good to the men he was meeting up there. Shady people. True blue Italians, if I placed their accents. In a place like this, with a man like Luke, I knew what that meant. I was happy to get out of their hair.

-Silk-

Her dress under my fingers. She turned around and laced her hands together behind my neck. Outside of our heels, which of us would be taller? What did it matter? She kissed me. I kissed her. The man behind me pushed his bulge against my ass. You wish. Odds were better I would go home with her than him–either alone or as an accessory to a night with Luke. If he remembered I existed. Or if he didn't introduce me to his ‘associates.’ I let out a breath into my new friend's mouth. She smiled against me, I could feel it. God, the thought of the two of us, alone in some shadowy place with those men in suits–

Shadows-------