Janie tried dancing to the blaring music with her friends in the sticky mosh pit of bodies, lasers, mirror balls, and fog; but when the guy grinding on Casey spilled his beer all over her, she decided to slip away and wound up at the crowded bar. Alone, sweaty and exhausted, she was packed in like a sardine with other people who were, at the very least, sweaty, drinking, and dancing to exhaustion or until last call. Whichever one came first.
Perched on a sticky wooden barstool, Janie tugged her rising hem down for what seemed like the millionth time. The thundering of the beat and the strobe lights rattled her core and made her eyes water as her contacts throbbed under caked on black mascara and smoky silver eyeshadow. Her stained, white camisole clung, exposing the obviously stuffed bra Casey insisted she borrow. The neon yellow underglow of the counter illuminated the long rip down her leg to show swollen ankles and feet pinched into teeter tottering, sit-pretty, scuffed, pine needle heels. Janie pulled her too tight high-pony out of her light, glowing hair. She tapped her chipped nails restlessly as the bartender continued to ignore her and the DJ dropped the beat yet again, chuckling behind his shades as some of the dancers missed it. Three violets
whimpered with heads bowed stems entwined. Never touching, never looking at each other as they slowly withered in a cracked vase. |
Editorial Staff
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