You’ve had five doubles. Four beers. Two jager bombs. And one quickie in the bathroom. Real quick. Skirt over back. Bent over. Few thrusts. Quickie. The deejay is no longer playing good music. You’re not feeling the place anymore. You’re also not feeling your legs but that’s trivial. She’s left. That chic. You don’t remember her name. Stacey? Anne? Michelle? Claire? Dammit, names. It’s not important. She had a condom. Thank God for her being empowered.
Pato is on the dancefloor writhing his waist in tandem with some lass. He has a silly grin plastered on his face. And an intense look. His eyes are trained on her butt. He’s like a dog with a bone. More like a dog with a boner. From the way she’s moving he might take her home. The deejay switches to the mellow sounds of a Tanzanian star. Seals the deal for him. They are now buried in each other’s faces. A carnal hunger building in both of them. You make a quick reminisce to the bathroom moments. Smile, but still don’t remember her name. Agnes?
You guys came together. Pato and you. You’ve been friends since highschool. Pato likes attention. He craves it like a junky craves the cold icy feel of unsterilized steel carressing his veins. From the bright colored ties and socks. To the way he takes off his shirt to show off his chiseled abs. He literally takes it off anywhere. Especially next to fine ladies. Complains of the heat then bam. It’s off. Slung around his neck. He also has a toothpaste ad smile. A set of snappers that’s the envy of dentists. Molars so straight they’re homophobic. Canines so sharp they’re dressed for the prom. They saunter back to the table. His hands firmly on the small of her back. He has his trademark grin. He is whispering something into her ear. She smiles and whispers back. Then they both giggle. Love sick puppies. She stretches out her hand and says hi. You get her name. Dorothy. Owns a shop that sells ladies clothes.
You’re being nice so you ask Dorothy if she’ll have a drink. She looks at pato who shrugs. Resigns his huge shoulders and waves his hand in a ‘whatever’ kind of way. She then looks at you and nods. It’s a light nod. Like she’s afraid she might break her neck. Like that decision carried the weight of grave consequences. You get the waitress to bring her some black ice. She brings two. Some stupid policy about never selling just one. They are a package deal. Like dating a single mom. Or getting new shoes. You watch as one bottle is opened. And read the name on the waitress’s tag. Pauline. She doesn’t look like a Pauline though. You picture a Pauline as one to have short curl kit hair. Over gelled. Such that it shines like a disco ball. Freakishly tall. Slender. And small eyes. Her? She’s different. Weave. Full lips. Fuller body. Not a Pauline.
You can feel the room start to spin. You need to pee. You get up and maneuver your way between tables and dancing couples. The sweet release of burning piss flowing out of you is relaxing. For some weird reason you smile. You leave the bathroom without washing your hands. On your way back you bump into pato. Dorothy hanging on his arm like she was on to his every word. He tells you he is going home. You ask whose home. He says they haven’t figured it out. Says he’ll call an uber. Figure it out inside. On the ride home. You wish him well. Warn him to use protection and you both laugh. They leave and you go back to the table. Order one last double. Rush it down your throat. Reminds you of Anna. Was it Anna? Fuck you don’t know. You get Pauline to bring the bill. Pato shucked his. Sly nigger. You pay and walk out.
The parking lot is full. You remember where you parked your white Subaru. Next to the red premio. The red premio isn’t there anymore. There’s a silver grey Mazda. Looks lady owned. You can tell from the dent on the rear bumper. The keys are playing hide and seek in your pocket. You fingere fumble around for a few seconds and you finally get them. But there’s some foiled thing in your pocket. You ignore it and press the button on the key. The twii twii and blinking of hazards announces the doors are open. You get in. You try get the key in. It’s like drunk sex. Reminds you of Joan. Joan? No. Shit. You still can’t remember. Somehow you manage to get it in. Start the car. Dr Dre blasts from the speakers. You open all the windows. You figure it might be the only blowing you get that night.
The roads are deserted. Your vision is blurry. You’re not sure if you’re doing 60 or 80. Dr Dre is sounding like drunk Bob Marley. The deejay effects remind you of Maggy. No. Still you can’t remember. The road shifts. Or the car shifts. No it’s the road. You blame the Chinese for building shifty roads. You blink twice rapidly it gets a bit clear. Yeah you were veering off. You bring the car back. Speedo reads 120. You let down the anchor. Slow down. You’re almost home. You know the car doesn’t know it’s way. You do. So you struggle to stay awake. You have to. You see the black gate and the reflective metals shine. You see the sleepy Masai guard slowly stir. He opens the gate and waves you in sleepily. The last thing you do before closing your eyes is closing the windows.
A tap on the window wakes you up. There’s a gospel mix playing now. It’s a lady. She’s in a pink dress, has a hat and clear rimless glasses. She seems irked. Like she’s stood there for a few minutes. You open your window. Don’t even try to smile. Mumble an apology, start the car and head to your house. You had blocked her out of her parking. She would be late for church. For some weird reason you hope she prays for you. You go into the house and after fumbling with keys go straight into the room. No time to take shoes or clothes off you black out. For maybe six or eight hours. You wake up with a bad headache. Hungry. And confused. It’s already dusk. Your phone went off a long time ago. It’s the first thing you plug in as you drag you weary self to the kitchen. The fridge as fate would have it is empty. Save for two cans. They look like bad ideas.
You fish into your pockets for a few loose notes. Something that can buy you fries. And fried chicken. Especially fried chicken. You feel that foiled thing again. You take it out. It’s the condom. Unwrapped. Then you remember her name. Janet. You must’ve put it in your pocket when you couldn’t get it open. You hear your phone ding all the way in your room. You brush it off as Pato. Probably sending a few pictures of naked Dorothy. Why do they let him do that? Take their pictures. You go to the shops get a painkiller. Buy fries. Sadly there’s no chicken. On your way back you inspect the car. No scratch. Save for the dimmere that are still on, it’s intact. You know you were lucky. Back in the house a pain killer down, fries eliminated and a can in hand you go to the phone. Just as you guessed. Her perky breasts and hard niples stare back at you. Typical pato. Then there’s another number. Unknown. You open the message.
Hey, Janet here. Great time last night.
Heads up though. If I get it, I’ll keep it.
For the next week it stresses you. Janet is a colleague. You keep rereading the message. Avoiding her. You even show up late. But if only you knew you were not the only thing late.