Baby, you're drunk, and acting tough.
I'm not drunk. I'm happy.
Oh?
Happy. You know, that feeling you get when you've been dancing beside the speaker all night, and the only sense you have left is the sight of your own blonde tresses as they swish on by, even the pain from your slut shoes defleshing your heels is dim, the music is good, no the music is better than good because at least five times you've clapped with glee and squealed Ooooh, my favourite, and you're high on the sugar from your rum and cokes like this whole night is just for you, like maybe everyone in the bar came out just so that you could smile your smile and do your thing, and maybe it's not true but maybe it doesn't even matter because you're out there enjoying it all, lost in the twinkling coloured lights, taking the phone numbers to avoid the argument but dismissing them all with a saucy wink because you already know who you want to go home with tonight and your secret smile is because you're wearing the perfect panties underneath and he'll be pleased, but for now you're on the floor feeling the beat, touching yourself, basking in the heat, letting other bodies brush your own and sparking from all the electricity that surrounds you like the energy is communal tonight and everyone is sharing more than a dance, and you can feel their desires almost as palpably as you can feel the pendant around your neck, swaying like you do, catching in your cleavage, and the universe narrows to just this sweaty space, nothing else matters, tonight is the night.
And the fact that you've been bleeding in your shoes for the past 4 hours?
Details. Just details.
Now slam my back against the wall and kiss me like you mean it.
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