Nice dress

"I'm wearing a black dress," she says on the other end of some electromagnetic pulse. "You'll see me when you get here."

I get there, too. Barely. No cigarettes left and flat shoes destroying the arches of my feet, I'm convinced I smell like five hours of walking through this smog cloud city, half ready to collapse. The bouncer lets me in and I squeeze my way past a tightly packed and lubricated crowd of gay men, each one gyrating in his own way to the teeny bopper hits of the nineties pumping over their heads and in to their skin.

It's like a pile of mouse babies. I push through and slide out around the bathrooms at the back. A girl approaches but I'm too dazed to bother to look at her twice. And then I do, and it's none other than.

"Nice dress," I say, admiring her short blonde wig. She could be anyone she wants. She is.

We wander in to the bathrooms. She and the mirror are closely acquainted, and I sit on the counter with my back to it. I don't want to see - she can't stop looking. She has reason to look. The door opens and the previously muted beats and bass open up in to real music, it shuts and they're wrapped in a sound blanket again. My eyes peel open to the fluorescent bathroom lights. She caps her lipstick, open the doors and we disappear among the bodies. Or at least, I do.