The Flower
Booty wurk - T-Pain
The vibration from the loud music courses through my body, and I swear the bass will be my new heartbeat. Z is trying to speak to me, but it's just inaudible noises at this point. When in doubt, just smile and nod.
The club is packed tonight with men and women everywhere—dancing, talking, sitting, drinking, and mingling. It doesn't surprise me, as this is one of the more popular clubs. It is located in the heart of the city; people from all over pack the place almost every weekend.
There is a DJ on the main level, with a generous setup near one wall. There are tables and booths that line the room all around, making a smaller space for dancing. A lit-up dance floor illuminates the center, being the main source of light, other than strobes and lasers.
Members, who pay a pretty penny, hang out on the floor above us. It has a lookout to the first level from a glass balcony. Don’t worry, we peasants still have fun down here.
I feel a soft nudge on my arm, then see a cocktail in a small hand. I glance at it, then at the person holding it. Z wiggles her eyebrows in my direction with a mischievous smirk on her face. It makes me chuckle. Taking the glass, I bring it up to my lips, and my face contorts.
“What the hell did you order?” I turn toward her.
“God, is it just me or does your drink taste like ass too?” she says with her nose crinkled.
“Yep, mine is ass too. Come on, let's try to chug these and go dance!” I yell, ready for the next venture. I take the glass to my lips and plug my nose, feeling the cold liquid sting the back of my throat like a toxic addiction.
The music is great tonight. They're playing 2000s throwbacks, and I am living for it. Booty Wurk is on, and you bet your ass we’re bumping and grinding.
Tonight is all about us and forgetting all our problems. Dancing is our favorite choice of activity.
We basically live and breathe it. We’re both therapists by day, dance connoisseurs by night. Well, by the weekend rather.
We approach the center of the crowded dance floor, bumping into others along the way. Once we find an area that’s spacious enough, our bodies begin to move to the beat of the music.
My hands roam over my curves while my hips sway. I can feel my best friend's front against my back, matching my movements like we are two peas in a pod. Very hot and sweaty, peas in a pod.
I’m wearing a black leather miniskirt with a black lace top that you can see all the way through. Luckily, my bra leaves the imagination running. At least a little. Then, of course, my black boots. They're always a staple for any outfit I wear.
Zoe is wearing black leather pants that accentuate her ass, with a black halter top.
On nights like this, we get to be someone different.
We’ve even gone as far as making alter egos.
And yes, we both have fake names in case we get approached, accompanied by terrible accents we’ve adapted for our facade personas.
The alcohol makes its way through my system, creating a slight distortion in my vision. Little prickles of gray outline my peripherals. Suddenly, my thoughts and worries seem so minuscule. Just the feel of the music coursing through me, having my bestie with me, and dancing are all I need.
I am captured by the moment, though I can’t help but feel a set of eyes burning through me, so I scan the busy room.
In a sea full of people, I make eye contact with someone who seems to already have their attention on me.
I typically shy away from eye contact. Other than doing on a day-to-day basis in my professional life, making eye contact in a setting like this would attract a certain type of attention.
The man is tall with black hair that has a few inches of length to it. Messy and slightly covering his right eye with a few perfectly placed wisps. I quickly glance away, not wanting him to get the wrong impression of me or think that I might be interested.
On nights out, Z and I make a promise to never let a guy interfere with our good time. Now, if it’s a night out purposefully looking for a hookup, then that's another story. Tonight is not one of those nights, and I don’t break my promises. They're sacred.
The guy appears attractive, but the low-lighted place makes it hard to make out any other facial features.
Just the glimmer reflecting from his eyes.
He's got this mysterious vibe, you know?
Standing there alone, arms crossed, off to the side, completely still.
Definitely has that bad-boy aura. Too cool to dance, so he just hangs back, watching everyone else.
My eyes shyly look back in his direction, making me do a double-take. I try not to snag the attention of any men; that's typically the last thing on my mind, but there is something pulling me towards him. Like an invisible string that's pulling me to him.
Tingles run down my body as I notice he hasn't looked away at all. The club lights illuminate his arms just enough to reveal tanned muscles. He's covered in tattoos; veins trace through the ink, and I feel my mouth begin to salivate.
Wait, no. No more looking in his direction, Dahlia. It's girls' night.
My toxic trait is being attracted to men who look like they do bad things. Call it my savior complex. I think I can fix them. Maybe something about growing up in an almost perfect home has me wanting to attend to those who look like they have a broken past.
When the song ends, I am pulled by my arm towards the bar. I let the person drag me without a care. By the small hand tightly wrapped around, I know this person is on a mission.
“Let's get one more drink!” Z exclaims.
I think I have a slight buzz going on. More drinks equal a better time, so I comply easily. The alcohol makes my body lightly sway under the low lights, making me feel like a total lightweight. Who gets drunk off a few drinks? Me. That's who.
Tonight is supposed to be about escaping reality, yet all I can do is fixate on the man I just locked eyes with.
A small part of me is disappointed that he didn't come up to me.
Anytime we get approached on a girls' night, it’s typically by some dirtbag who is stumbling over, looking for a late-night hookup. Pass. No, thank you.
But if this man had come over, I would’ve at least given him my number. Maybe he wasn’t interested—maybe I misread the moment. Either way, he’s gone now; he has disappeared from his spot.
I take it as a sign. A sign from the universe that I really should break this habit and not wait for the mysterious bad boy to approach me. It’s probably for the best. I take the last drink and down it. My vision blurs quickly; suddenly everything fades to black.