I love this, this is absolutely my scene, Justin mused as the pounding rhythm of the music surged through his veins, infusing him with a rush of adrenaline. And he wasn't alone in feeling this way. The entire crowd around him was caught in the groove, bodies swaying in sync with the relentless beats. They pressed against each other, a mass of movement that transformed them from individual dancers into a collective force on the dance floor. The energy in the air was palpable, a high that seemed almost addictive. As the music's tempo escalated, so did the intensity of their movements. The atmosphere was a heady mix of sweat and perfume, an intoxicating blend that overwhelmed his senses. But amidst it all, he reveled in the experience, feeling vibrantly alive and unburdened.
Surveying the scene, all he could make out were hazy faces lost in their own euphoria. He aimed to stay at the center of the action, where the dance floor pulsed with life. However, as more people surged onto the floor, the mass of bodies pushed him to the periphery—Justin included. Navigating a sidestep to evade another wave of dancers, he accidentally collided with something soft. Turning to inspect the aftermath, he encountered the most alluring woman he'd ever seen. Their eyes met, and in that fleeting instant, it was as though they shared a secret melody. She responded with a sultry smile, and he reciprocated.
Intrigued by his reaction, the woman closed the distance between them. Her hands found their way to his neck, and as the music transitioned from one song to another, she swayed and gyrated around him, her limbs playfully engaging him with every twist and turn. His desire ignited. Suddenly, she leaned in, her lips meeting his in a fervent kiss that seemed to lack finesse. Rather than sparking electricity, the experience left him deflated, his lungs gasping for air amidst the flood of saliva. Disheartened, he gently withdrew, seeking solace in a drink to quench his parched throat—ironically reminiscent of his almost-drowning experience moments ago.
The woman's expression briefly registered disappointment before she moved on, already captivating another unsuspecting soul. Justin couldn't help but feel pity for the next person who would encounter the same fate he had. Navigating his way to the bar became an epic ordeal, demanding more than physical strength. At nearly 1.9 meters tall, he struggled to weave through the exuberant crowd—akin to a matador maneuvering past charging bulls. Each attempt to advance seemed to propel him backward, like a tossed ragdoll.
Summoning all his determination, he pressed on, forging a path amidst the sweaty bodies until he finally reached the other side of the dance floor. It was then he realized a mere drink wouldn't suffice to rejuvenate him. He cursed himself for neglecting to eat before this energetic escapade, acknowledging that dancing itself was a rigorous workout that demanded sustenance.
As Justin reached the bar, he locked his gaze on the bartender, slamming his hand down on the counter as he loudly demanded a pint of Speight's. However, the bartender seemed oblivious to his request, engrossed in an argument with a pair of women. Stepping closer, he strained to catch their conversation. "She's thirty," one of the women informed the bartender. "Thank you for clarifying, Laura," the other woman chimed in with a smile. She turned to the bartender and exclaimed, "I'm thirty. My friend just confirmed it."
"No," the bartender responded, looking somewhat flustered. Who wouldn't be flustered when faced with the assertive attention of two stunning women? In that fleeting moment, Justin found himself envying the bartender's predicament. "Can't you see? I'm not a twenty-year-old kid," the woman whined, a hint of frustration in her voice.
Clearly, this had something to do with fake IDs. It was becoming common for young people to try to access alcohol ahead of their time. Despite considering himself young, Justin was well over twenty-one and appeared well beyond twenty-five, so fake IDs were unnecessary for him. "Don't give me that look," the girl scolded the bartender. "You want to see my ID? Fine, I'll show it to you."
The unfolding scene had a touch of humor, and Justin found himself captivated as the drama continued to unfold. Rarely did he witness such a beautiful young woman—seeming not a day over nineteen—claiming to be thirty, all for the sake of a sip of alcohol. A chuckle escaped Justin's lips, accompanied by a shake of his head. It reminded him of another amusing incident from about a week ago, when a girl had handed him a bouquet of roses just before Valentine's Day, only to pull his towel off and flee, leaving him exposed and bemused.
The memory was vivid: him standing there, utterly bare, watching her sprint away in a mix of panic and mischief. In the background, the fading echoes of his recent partner's voice filled the air, her threats and insults directed at the runaway girl. He could still visualize the girl's black hair dancing in the breeze, longing to run his fingers through its silken strands. That day, she had roused a daring impulse within him, tugging away his towel and escaping like a fleeting dream. In that moment, he had been tempted to chase after her.
He would've, he admitted to himself, if it weren't for Macy, his ever-watchful neighbor, perched on her porch, always on the lookout for his romantic escapades. Had it not been for her vigilant eyes, he would've pursued the enigmatic girl without a second thought. The sound of rustling brought Justin's attention back to the present scene. His eyes followed the girl's actions as she rummaged through her bag, yet her efforts yielded no results.
"Miss, I can't serve you alcohol without proper ID," the bartender explained again. "I know it's in here somewhere," she muttered, her demeanor slumping in disappointment as she continued her search for the elusive identification. Then, turning to her friend—dressed in an all-black ensemble with Coke-bottle glasses—she instructed, "Fetch Helen. I think I left my wallet in her bag."
Her friend hesitated for a moment before reluctantly disappearing into the crowd on the other side of the club. Now alone, the girl's gaze remained fixed on the bartender, her expression conveying a sense of anticipation, as if she were waiting for her fate to be decided.
At this juncture, Justin found himself unable to resist the temptation. With his Casanova instincts kicking in, he yearned to playfully unsettle her and rescue her from her momentary distress. It was evident that this girl needed a boost, and he was determined to be the first to provide that lift.
As he observed her, Justin couldn't help but be captivated by her long, lustrous hair, illuminated beautifully by the kaleidoscope of disco lights. Her petite form was gracefully perched on a stool, her legs dangling like those of a child. A perfect match for my taste, Justin thought with an inner smile.
Sensing the urgency of the situation, Justin maneuvered his stool closer to hers until they were in close proximity. With her attention still riveted on her exchange with the bartender, he decided to take action. Hello, sweetheart, he murmured, his warm breath grazing her ear.
As if a door to heaven had swung open, she turned her head. To his astonishment, his mouth nearly hung agape for a whole minute. This was the very same girl who had confessed something to him just last week—the same girl who had etched herself into his thoughts. There was no way he could mistake her identity. Her pupils glinted with the same molten intensity, her cheeks, now flushed not from the embarrassment of their previous encounter but from her ongoing spat with the bartender, radiated an angry hue.
This vision before him was nothing short of breathtaking. She exuded an irresistible allure, an intensity that made him hope she might be receptive to his advances tonight, provided he executed his seductive tactics effectively. "You!" she exclaimed, her cheeks aflame under the vibrant, shifting lights. "Well, well, well, isn't it the sweetheart who made a confession to me last week?" Justin purred, oozing seduction. "Did you get a good look before you dashed off like a demon was on your tail?"
Amy's mind resounded with a resolute conviction: This certainly wasn't her scene. A relentless headache was nesting itself at the base of her skull, throbbing in time with the pounding music assaulting her ears. If this club became a regular haunt, she couldn't help but predict a future of hearing impairment by the time she hit forty.
Midnight, her impending milestone, held no allure for her. Here she stood, amidst the club's frenzy, where the arrival of midnight felt as rapid as a Lightning McQueen race. The turning point to her thirties was imminently approaching, an event she viewed with less enthusiasm than a root canal. And if the blaring argument with the bartender over her modest request for a single alcoholic drink wasn't enough, her patience was wearing thin.
Oh, for heaven's sake! Was her simple plea too much to ask? She wasn't seeking world domination, merely one drink—a small one at that. While she mentally apologized to her parents for the internal profanity, she was nearly at her wits' end. On her birthday, no less, she was at the brink of tears. A single sip, even just a taste, could offer a small sense of what alcohol was like before the dreaded midnight arrived and ushered her into spinsterhood. A spinster who had never experienced the flavor of alcohol? What would her colleagues at the dental practice say? She could already envision them gossiping and speculating on their blog. Dr. Amy Douglas, esteemed gum specialist, hit the melancholy milestone of thirty without even a sip of alcohol to her name. The shame of it all. Absolutely not. Amy refused to endure this any longer. Desperation necessitated extreme measures.
"Please, you have to believe me," Amy implored, her voice carrying the weight of urgency. When the bartender's expression remained impassive, she resorted to logical persuasion. "I'm working now. I'm not a child anymore. I'm a periodontist." Still, no reaction. "I've spent two full years practicing as a dentist before specializing in gum health." Her voice escalated into a shout. The bartender, impervious to her arguments, might as well have had his teeth extracted, gum disease or not, and shoved into his own eyes; she wanted to hear him wince in pain. Oh, if only she could channel her friend Laura's knack for witchcraft, then she'd command the fear she needed, eliminating the need to beg for a meager drink.
"Do you have any idea how long it took me to earn both degrees? A grueling eight years, coupled with three years of practice, that's eleven in total!" By now, her frustration had escalated to a point where she pounded her fist on the bar, attempting intimidation. Her irritation had transformed her cheeks into fiery crimson. With each word, her voice climbed an octave. "So, if you truly believe I'm under twenty-five, you must be utterly brainless."
However, the bartender merely blinked at her, seemingly unfazed. He regarded her as if she were a recent escapee from a mental institution, her tirade sounding like the musings of a deranged patient fixated on her profession. "Can you comprehend how I even managed to get inside this blasted nightclub?" She continued her tirade. "I'm well past twenty-five, I assure you."
"Miss, I'm sorry, but I must confirm with your ID," the bartender responded nonchalantly. "Are you a malfunctioning record player? I told you my friend is getting my wallet." Exasperated, she fumed, "It's probably in her bag." "Well, I'll be patient," the bartender replied with a serene smile. "I won't be. I have a mere five minutes until midnight. Are you going to serve me that drink or not?" Amy challenged him. "No," the bartender simply declared, resolute in his stance.
Her shoulders slumped in defeat. Dear God, do you truly intend for me to enter spinsterhood without tasting alcohol? Is that your intention? I'm willing to oblige that request, but do you have to deprive me of this as well? I want to experience this before turning thirty. Grant me this, and I'll willingly embrace spinsterhood. With renewed determination, she lifted her shoulders, sitting up straight.
Why surrender now? There remained a full five minutes until midnight. Thus, she summoned her most authoritative glare, the one she typically directed at patients who ignored her oral health counsel—the glare that meant business. Simultaneously praying and wishing that Laura and Helen would return with her wallet, she summoned her courage.
Then, a whisper brushed against her ear like an electric shock. Startled, she turned her head toward the source of the voice. Her prayer seemed to have been answered, for there stood the very Casanova to whom she had presented the bouquet of roses on the eve of Valentine's Day.
His blue irises entranced her, a familiar mischievous spark gleaming within them. She quickly averted her gaze from his penetrating stare, her heart syncing with the pulsating music. A grave mistake, for her gaze now rested on his lips—a disastrous decision. To her detriment, he unleashed that devilish grin once more, the very smile that turned her legs into jelly. Were she not perched on the barstool, she might well have collapsed onto the floor by now.
However, this evening held a distinct significance in the curve of his lips—a meaning that seemed to transcend the usual. It was as though his smile welcomed her back warmly after the rather embarrassing stunt she had pulled, playfully yanking off his towel. And tonight, that grin was unveiled in all its glory, a spectacle reserved solely for her eyes. His teeth, flawlessly aligned and a brilliant shade of white, appeared to be the result of meticulous orthodontic work spanning years, adorned with braces and perfected through bleaching—yes, a process of bleaching that had achieved that remarkable level of enamel whiteness.
Suddenly, an image of him, half-dressed, materialized before her, tingeing her cheeks with a delicate rosy hue. The surprise of his presence right there, directly in front of her, caught her off guard, leaving her face merely inches from his own. Her ability to articulate seemed to abandon her at that moment, and all that escaped her lips was a breathless, "You!"
Why was it that in the presence of this Casanova, her words always stumbled? It wasn't as if she had a speech impediment; quite the opposite, in fact. Once she had grasped the intricacies of the English language, her family and friends could hardly keep up with her chatter. So, why now? Why had the simple act of forming a sentence suddenly become an arduous task? "Well, well, well, if it isn't the sweetheart who made a confession to me just last week," he purred, his voice a caress by her ear. "Did you savor the view before scurrying away as though pursued by the devil?"
How should she respond? What could she possibly say? Her tongue felt immobilized. Then, a notion struck her like a lightning bolt. "Buy me a drink." "What?" he stammered, utterly taken aback. Surely, he hadn't anticipated such a retort from her. However, what did she stand to lose by making this audacious demand? Buy me a drink, she repeated, determination etched across her features.
She was resolute; she wasn't about to relinquish this opportunity. This man appeared to be well past twenty-five; surely, he could afford to purchase a drink for her. "Of course, sweetheart," he acquiesced, his smile unwavering. With a simplicity akin to the melting of cheese on toasted bread, Justin promptly ordered a shot of whatever liquid resided within that diminutive container, resembling a cup one might find in her dental practice. Amy couldn't help but question whether the murky brown liquid truly contained any alcohol at all.
She grasped the petite cup in her hand, examining it closely as she turned it around. "Do you really think this is alcohol? It looks quite murky," Amy questioned Justin skeptically. Justin responded with a mere smile and said, "It's a spirit, my dear. Go ahead and drink it." Amy's curiosity persisted, "But why isn't it purple like in the Bunsen burner experiment?" "Without a doubt, it's a spirit, darling. Drink it up now," he affirmed, urging her again.
Checking her cellphone, she noticed only thirty seconds remained until midnight. Acting on a single purpose, akin to Cinderella leaving her glass slipper behind, she downed the entire contents in one swift motion. Oh dear, regret washed over her swiftly as her eyes welled up, breath caught,
her face flushed red. All she desired at that very instant was to expel that repugnant liquid. However, she had a mere twenty seconds—twenty seconds before the stroke of midnight. She could endure it, she was sure. On the opposite side, Justin observed her face expanding like a pufferfish, cheeks ballooning and eyes bulging, as if she were retaining the drink within her mouth. Startled, he suggested, "Drink it up. Don't hold it like that." Amy could only shake her head fervently. Her eyes stung intensely, tears streaming down her cheeks like rivulets. The alcohol in her mouth felt like a scorching blaze, assaulting her senses. The vile liquid continued its assault, numbing her mouth gradually.
Nausea consumed her, the liquid's containment unsustainable. Thirty seconds or not, single or not, she wasn't ready to meet her end just yet. If she didn't swiftly rid herself of this agonizing fiery fluid, she would surely succumb. And so, she expelled it. The entire shot was forcibly ejected, a spray inadvertently directed towards Justin, who now sat across from her, his face and shirt adorned with a mixture of spirit and saliva. For the second time that night, Justin's excitement ebbed away.