Rohypnol Lullaby

So, there I stood in the Walmart parking lot. I was wearing a tight blouse that clung to me in, what I thought was, an appealing fashion; capris that did a nice job of highlighting my ass: shoes that split the difference between comfort and style, after all, we were probably going to be dancing and I wanted to be able to run if this went tits up; and my most comfortable underwear, as I knew that I might not have the opportunity to wear different ones for a while. I hadn’t had time to redo my makeup, so it was the same simple approach I wore to work. But, importantly, I switched out the birth control patch I had put on immediately after the {if husband==true}divorce{else}breakup{endif}, which seemed both an eternity ago and yet a recent turning point in my life, for a new one. The only other things I had on me were my phone, my driver’s license, a debit card, and a pair of Katja’s most unobtrusive dragonflies who were masquerading as hair accessories.

I could see the SUV driven by Badger in the distance and tried not to look that way when the black Charger pulled up in front of me.

I bent down to look in the window and confirm it was Constantino, who I reminded myself was going by the name “Christian” tonight, but he beat me to it and climbed out of the driver’s side. Surprisingly, he came around to my side and opened the door for me, proving the old saying that, “You should always open the door for your intended abductee.”

I sat on the comfortable seat and waited for him to climb back in on the driver’s side. When he did, he gestured to the radio and said, “Lady’s choice.”

I flipped through the vaguely familiar satellite radio stations and found one featuring a slow symphonic production that was probably taken from some play or opera or perhaps just made for a waltz at some fancy party long ago.

Christian laughed. “Okay, that’s what I get for letting you pick the radio, but at least I get to pick the destination.”

I put on what I thought was a convincing smile as we rolled through the streets.

When we got to the destination, it turned out to be an unassuming place away from the crowds of tourists with upbeat salsa music spilling forth.

We went inside without waiting in a line and I looked nervously at the dance floor.

“You might have to give me some pointers. The last time I was at a club, they were still playing that song from my childhood about shorty getting low in apple bottom jeans,” I said, as I honestly knew nothing about salsa other than its flavor on chips.

“I think they still play that sometimes, but not here,” Christian said, leading me out onto the dance floor.

I felt kind of silly dancing next to a couple in elaborate attire that I’m sure was purpose built for this, rippling and flowing with every beat, but reassured myself that a variety of clothing options were seen here and it appeared as though no one was judging us based on our attire, which was honestly nice.

After the second dance, I suggested that we get drinks and watch the next one. Unsurprisingly, Christian agreed.

Now, I’m not sure if it was something in that drink or if Hell had recently frozen over, but I thought I saw David enter with a woman on his arm that could have been mistaken for Maria if not for the stunning dress she wore and even more stunning smile.

I tried to get another look, but the next thing that I remember is leaning on Christian as I stumbled out of the club and into the passenger seat of his Charger, where my memory fades into a sleepy haze.