A drop of sweat threatens the cliff of her cupid’s bow. She manages to taste it with the tip of her tongue. The tip is meant for salt. The corner of a strip lash keeps getting caught in her tear duct. She tries to blink it back into place. Bat-bat-batting at the man straddling the bar stool in front of her. She turns her back towards him to roll her eyes at her girlfriend across the landscape of faux tealights atop tables, perfect teardrop flames gyrating in synchrony with hips. At least the backrest cuts the air between her exposed pussy and the jack and coke motivated bulge under his Wranglers. She puffs out her top lip to blow her bangs out of her lashes, but they get stuck to her lip gloss instead. She tucks and arches until wisps of hair brush against her tailbone, a dollar laid flat between two dimples.
*
Looking out over the railing, she takes in the terrain of the club. He lingers by the ATM in the far corner, hunched over a phone call. She smooths out her skirt and pulls up her stockings until they are just an inch from her lips. When he slides back into the leather booth, she gingerly places a hand on his thigh and whispers, “It’s so loud in here, lets go somewhere I can hear you better.” Tried and true.
The stillness of the private room does little to ameliorate his inebriation. Bliss and substance. He throws bills with such force. They patter against the walls like slanted rainfall, crisp enough for a few to slip between the paneling. This unexpected thievery distracts her. His phone rings, he promises to be back. She doesn’t take her chances. By now the floor is swathed in green. The security guards stop in with smiling plastic grocery bags. How desperate she must look on her hands and knees sweeping.
*
If someone is saving a seat, they’ll leave a souvenir behind. A feather boa, a fan, a silk scarf meant to barrier bare backside. The most beautiful thing about a freshly surrendered seat is the shadow of oily residue left in the shape of two trunks kissing. I think about summer and pulling myself out of the pool to rehydrate the concrete deck. The bottom of my suit snagging as I hug my knees into my chest. I wipe the oil away with a bar napkin.