Lightning

He was a skilled drug dealer who spoke many languages, always switching to another when the audience changed. I saw the first bag pass hands at the After Hours club. I inquired and he shoveled powder twice into my nose. An onlooker partook with us, in the long queue of the bathroom line.

"Wow," the stranger said, "it must be nice being so beautiful. How long have you two been together?"

"Years," I lied, "and he still complains about how I do my cocaine."

We had met that Sunday, on the street. I had been crying, on the phone, in a technicolored skirt, switching on a smile and my best fuck-me eyes as he passed, in his ripped jeans and a lazy Sunday vibe. Ballsy from my pain, I gave him my number, and knew he would use it.

He did, and there we sat, a few days later, at a neighborhood bar that I had never been to, drinking beer on an empty stomach, while texting my other option that I was busy and not to come through. Getting drunk on a weekday, par for the course lately. He ogled at me, ga-ga eyes, and once his hand found my ankle, resting on his chair, it was over forever. Without much hesitation, he made his way up my leg, and by the third beer we were kissing on the sidewalk, sucking face and grabbing hungrily - as if we hadn't been fucked in a while.

The shot of whiskey turned our encounter into a dangerous distraction, his fingers secretly inside me as we sat on bar stools and held conversations with his friends. The rest is dirty, so I'll only mention certain details - my tits may or may not have seen the full moon when he dropped me off at home, my white skirt wet as he raised it up and slapped my ass through the fence. A private show for whomever walked on by, as he whispered to me in Portuguese.

At the club that weekend, I made friends will all his girlfriends. Got their numbers, touched their hair, danced with them like the goddesses they were. We were a chameleon pair, two babes on the cusps of signs, partying European style on a lunar eclipse harvest moon. His uncle was the DJ, and his dad was there. A Berlin family. I broke it down with his father, who wore a chicken shirt tucked into conductor printed pants. I tried on boredom, and its suit let attachment slide off nicely.

"You seem distracted," I said to him, on the corner outside Monarch, a butterfly on the wings. He pulled me in and apologized, though I didn't even care. He was working, and each time he took out his wallet, there were more and more 20s there.

At the next club, he got me in VIP for free again, held my hand, led me from room to room, introducing me every time. The bass shook my soul, I rocked my hips from side to side. When 4am rolled around, I had had enough cigarettes and vodka tonics, and told him I was going home. He had one more big deal, so he put me in an Uber and told the driver to get his girl home safe.

I slept until the day woke me up, swished my mouth with coconut oil, put the rose he had given me back in my hair, and started my Saturday. It's time to recharge my Lightning.