We danced; she was Steven Tyler with an imaginary mic stand and I was a sexy librarian in a bun and glasses. It was too perfect. She kept singing at me, blowing hot stank breath through her Dracula gap right into my face. After she did this jerky move where she clawed at her ass like her hand was a hook, enough was enough; I finally went and took my seat.
My friend took over from there, went to high-five her, and accidentally smacked her—hard—right in the eye. She apologized profusely, but Michilli wouldn't have it. "I like you even more now," she purred, then went digging through the contents of her large handbag, which she'd dumped out on the pool table. Mostly it seemed she owned pistachio shells and coins, but she found a pill, broke it in half, stuffed one share into my friend's mouth and sauntered off to the bathroom.
She was still in there, parked on the floor cross-legged, when I broke the seal. "I'm so old," she told me, pockmarks and creases and hawk nose illuminated by the fluorescent light. She was applying dry-erase marker to her eyelids. "I wish I had real eyeliner," she sighed.
I kissed her on the cheek, told her her eyes looked fabulous and walked out.
Later, right as we all left the bar, we saw a sparkly shirt ascending a staircase across the way. We followed like raccoons.
At the top of the stairs was a bodyguard Frenching a luscious six-three queen in a farmer's daughter halter top and fake nails. She was holding a wrapped hamburger in one hand. "Hey," I asked. "Where's the party?"