He took in the last sip of his jack and coke, slipped his cheeks off the bar stool and stood, staggering onwards. The pungent stench of sticky dance floor serenaded the oily fragrance of wood polish. The mahogany accents of the room caressed the disgraceful patrons within it. He floated. Head spun up and around his scarf, twisting with every noise, halting in a sway near the tiled edge of the middle portion.
Head bobbing and weaving, not to the music, but rather the contemplation of how long he’d been there devouring liquid forgetfulness. On top of such he panicked at the assumption that perhaps he’d left his beverage alone on the bar a tad too long. He could feel the gaze of a nearly grey-haired man at the end of the bar. But every attempt to turn and catch the man mid-stare proved faulty, as he was either well beyond his speed, or in a mystic stupor all was just conjured in his dazed imagination. He straightened the dress shirt picked out by his ex girlfriend as the “out to congregate” look, part of his wearing it tonight was spiteful, but generally it was the only really suitable piece of clothing he owned for an establishment such as this. The sounds of her nostrils suffocating through an impeccable inhale made the noise of wet cement being shot from a hose.
Ninety percent solid, ten percent liquid. She pulled her hand away in a triumphant salute as she raised her head to catch sight of a mangled human being. Her nose was as red as the leading deer, and her eyes were glazed with near chocolate opacity. She coughed. During such a fit, holding her nose closed as to not waste any of the money she had just snorted. Her teeth felt fuzzy. Itchy almost.
She stood straight, reaching her hand into her shirt and between her breast and bra. She grabbed and pulled it until it sat playfully near the edge of the cup. Then the other.
She straightened her blouse, made sure none of the appropriate buttons were fastened, yanked at the bottom until her chest was so exposed that it made little reason for the shirt all together. She fluffed her hair while cursing Katie. “Just leave me alone with a club full of degenerates?” … “Who the fuck was that guy anyway?”. She made a “fuck you” puff of air shoot from her lips. Turning, she nearly collapsed. Standing there at the direct exterior of the washroom she eyeballed her potential targets.
Not one was worth her heart, but any of them could be worth a night.
He made his way towards the middle of the dance floor. The blurry faces melted together in some kind of lucid horror show. It wasn’t sexy. Terrified he pushed his way through pairings without a graceful step. His hips moved in opposite motion as his feet. It was obvious to him that they were no longer working in tandem. For a while he had to concentrate, and command each portion into movement on their own separate wavelengths. A weighty task. One he almost failed. He stopped directly in the center. The light beams shooting from the DJ table like Star Wars on fast-forward. As if the music was waging a war against the ceiling, then the dancers, then back to the roof. It may have been tolerable had he not already been losing the fight with dizzying nausea.
She felt a rusty arm reach under hers and cup her breast, a man from behind stuffed his face in her neck and began making gruesome kissing sounds. She twitched, skin aflame, threw and elbow back and landed a solid thump on the unknown man’s rib cage. A volatile “UMMFPH” came from the creep, who she could now see was a disgusting older Iranian man. One of the flock. Every night entertainment establishment has a grouping of these people. They're shy on failure, therefore filled with confidence.
Maybe if they just tried to approach a woman on normal standards they wouldn’t receive my elbow, she thought to herself. She stuck both palms into the man’s chest and shoved him against the wall. “Eat dirt.” She said as if she was actually cussing at the person. For a split second, her eyes had focus, he form was rigid, and she was back in control. But only for that moment. After a pause, some solid breathing, she remained frail in motion. Making her way to the center of the dance floor where the peak of her nose ran directly into the man standing in awe of the lights blaring in his eyes. He didn’t stumble, but he waved like the calm pool slapped with a foam noodle.
It took him a beat to look down, the gorgeous mess with a crimson river of blood shuffling down and dripping of the cursed peak of her upper lip. It was perhaps the ugliest beauty he'd ever seen. Smitten, he corrected his stance, palmed at his shirt, blinked about a thousand times, and apologized. They merged into one, convulsing with the swing of the tracks screaming all around them. It was sweaty, inebriated, and probably the third least romantic thing ever done between two human beings. He slid his thumb across her lip.
She instinctively opened her mouth and moved her head to ensure the finger would end up on her tongue. As she licked and sucked, the man and his eyes rolled in place. He began to lose focus on the sounds and zoomed his face down to her level where they shared what may have (on another night) been a wondrous, world-crashing kiss.
On this night, it was more like taking two Montreal smoked meat sandos that have sat in the sun for two hours and mushing them together. Throw in two tongues that tasting like booze and blood. What a cocktail of romance. As he slid his hand onto her behind, she pawed at his crotch. He slipped his tongue onto her neck, and his foul intentions into her soul. They clawed and soured at one another for a space of time far beyond ones ability to count. She dug her nails into his lower back, leaving cat-like marks right above his slack-hugging waistline. He felt his worries fly away in the whip of her hair. The rest of the night sung quickly like an action movie montage. The cab, the key trouble, the cat feeding, the undressing, the shock, the playful foreplay, the less than satisfactory sex, the lack of names, sans contemplation, and the pizza.
Seven hours later she woke, he didn’t. Embarrassment congealed with her pleasurable fuzzy memory of events, and she got up and clothed with haste. It was unlike her to take to bed with a man so irresponsibly. This put a grin on her face. Unlike her. She liked that.
It would be 6 days before the police found his body. Laid out on his bed, mouth filled with retched clumps of old vomit. The form of the woman in the memory foam beside him long gone. She turned on the news that morning, sat next to her Pomeranian, sipped at her coffee, and spat it out all over her faux-suede sofa when the man’s face appeared above the headline “Murdered: Black Widow on the loose”. Unlike her indeed. Something she didn’t hate. She felt good. Or at the very least better. And now she had no attachment to the man from the whirling center of the dance floor. Like her, this new her. She liked that.
“Siri, text Katie: Which club tonight?”