Fifteen Minutes: E is for Ecstasy

The catwalk.

     Somehow you ended up above the crowd. There you are in your backless shirt. Your friend spins next to you in a barely-there, pink leopard skin dress, her strappy black sandals striking the platform. A red beam of light cuts through the glittering crowd. One of the bikini-clad dancers in the center cage catches your eye. You're dizzy. You bend down to ditch the Long Island iced tea.

     And then you feel his hand on the small of your back. He looks at you through the film of red, watered eyes, smiling with bleary, imagined recognition.

     "Czome jsit," he says, smiling, rubbing that cold hand down your naked back. His other hand, occupied with a slightly squashed Evian bottle, motions to a chair.

     "What?" you ask, barely audible above the droning sound of an unfamiliar beat.

Outside.

     Cigarette break. A much older guy with an abundance of hair gel appears to be digging the leopard skin dress