Written by Angela Hatcher
She kept stumbling.
Her feet didn’t seem to function properly in those red stilletos; she looked like a baby giraffe learning how to walk for the first time.
Combine that with two trashcans, three shots of vodka, and a screwdriver–high heels were beginning to look like a bad choice.
For every step and stumble she just laughed and held her drink high above her head. She tip toed through the beer, vomit and regret-stained floor with great caution.
“Excuse me!” She hollered over the music as she made her way through dozens of tightly packed, moving bodies to the dance floor.
There were five steps that led to her happy place — the place where she could dance.
She slipped on the first step down and fell right on her tush. Her delicate frame shook with laughter.
A man rushed over to help her and put his hand on her waist to pull her up. He smiled at her. She laughed some more and took a sip from her drink.
They danced together for the whole night and for a little while, she forgot about all her troubles and lost herself to the rhythm of the electronic bass.
Cue “Truffle Butter” by Nicki Minaj, Lil Wayne, and Drake.
“The Trinity!” She screamed. And not the holy one.
She danced even more, bumping and grinding to the intoxicating beat. She kept smiling at the guy behind her, kept drinking, and kept stumbling.
It seemed like only minutes had passed before the music cut abruptly and the lights came on.
“Whatttttttt!” She cried, tossing her now empty plastic cup on the ground.
Staff began ushering out guests. A mob of people poured out of Brick and onto the street. Names of frat houses were being shouted out for after parties with the promise of more alcohol. Couples headed home hand in hand after a long night of drinking and dancing. Guys watched as girls struggled to get back to their dorms in a drunken haze.
But not the girl with the red stilletos. She gave the guy she danced with her number and he left.
She stood on the empty dance floor, lingering there. The staff didn’t bother her. This seemed to be a regular thing.
She eventually made her way to the bar.
“Hey Jimmy,” she said.
“Hey doll.” He replied. “I take it you want the usual?”
“Yeah, a bit extra today. It’s been a rough week.”
Jimmy poured her four shots of fireball.
She drank them without pause. She didn’t chase a single one; she barely even flinched.
“How’s Adam?” Jimmy asked.
She stared at the empty plastic shot glasses in front of her and chuckled sardonically.
“Adam?” She said. “Adam is doing just fine I’m sure.”
She didn’t look up from the little glasses. She turned them over one by one until they were all flipped.
A tear slid out from the corner of her eye, bleeding black mascara onto her cheek. She quickly wiped it away.
The damage was done. Beneath layers of foundation, concealer, and powder there was a bruise on her right cheek.
She didn’t realize it had been exposed.
She grabbed a pack of Camels from her purse and asked Jimmy for a light.
He handed her a lighter with a cross on it.
She lit her cigarette and puffed on it anxiously and murmured to herself, “Yeah, he’s alright. He’s doing just fine.”
An official-looking lady came over to her and asked her to leave; smoking isn’t permitted inside the building.
She didn’t complain.
She turned and walked out without a single glance back, tossing her half used cigarette on the floor.
She kept stumbling.