Baby, let me wash your feet forever. Send. My heart drops the instant the Geese lyric is delivered, but another shot of gin later and I'm tapping my thumbs against my cracked iPhone screen again with the precision of a geriatric quarterback. I hear my friends call my name loudly from the club patio, slurring the syllables before adapting them to match the tune of the Britney Spears song blaring over the club's oddly high fidelity speakers. I'm too hypnotized by your contact glowing on my phone to pay attention. I type the next desperate string of characters, hoping they'll be the ones to change your mind, but an elbow jabs into the right side of my ribcage before I can change my mind and drunk call you. My fingers release you and your last text fades into the sticky floor while I instinctively cover my chest.
The elbow's owner whips her head around and asks if I'm okay. As she turns, a wave of the same perfume I got you for your birthday hits my nose.
I stand up straight, feeling blood rush to the forming bruise under my left palm. When I face her, I see the girl in front of me is about my age. Her big brown eyes twinkle under the club's flashing lights, slowly beginning to lose interest. Her gaze hardens and I feel my throat tighten as we approach the end of our encounter. I move my tongue, carelessly spilling out the words, "You're wearing my ex's favorite perfume."
At the mention of you I realize how unnatural my right hand feels and I begin scanning the floor for my phone, completely detached from the interaction. I overhear her say something to her friends about me being weird, but my nose is two feet from the floor and the smell overwhelms my impaired senses. Inevitably, I'm bumped by someone and crash into a couple on the dance floor. Their drinks spill onto each other, beer soaks my hair, and suddenly they're calling me by your name for me—Asshole. I feel a large, warm, hand on my shoulder that tightens its grip and pulls me backward to the entrance of the club until I'm falling onto the sidewalk outside. I catch an upside down glimpse of my grey haired assailant, a bouncer twice my size, and prepare to curse him out. A burp leaves my mouth while he walks back inside and slams the door shut.
I sit on the concrete, too dizzy to force myself inside or find a way home.
"Where are your friends?" A deep voice on my left asks.
I turn to see a small bichon wearing a fitted baseball cap. "Inside, with my phone," I say.
The bichon scoffs. "You people and your phones and insides. Your nature is inescapable." His eyes roll and he smugly trots away.
For a minute I'm stunned that words seem easier for him than me. Then I'm offended. "You don't know me!" I yell. I take off my left sneaker and stand up before the dog reaches the end of the block. I throw my shoe at him, only for it to land a foot away while he scurries around the corner.