"You can't be serious," he says, barely perceptible over the bass-frenzied synth contorting the movement of air, light, and bodies through the room.
"Somebody will see. They will, and-"
"That's the point." I grin through the fibrillating thrash and pulse, inhaling his sweat as it resonates in the distant magnetic longing of our atoms, drunk and seeking the warm comfort of skin or oblivion.
"--and they'll call the fucking cops and we'll be, like, required to register as sex offenders. Or at least get a few months in prison for criminal intent. Jesus Christ, you're insane." His eyes are unfocused, and he puts a hand on the bar stool to steady that earnest and transparent gaze which, once adored, now conjures nothing but a tired disgust.
"Social deviance is still well within the confines of the law. Now shut up and hold this," handing him a red solo cup of punch and removing the placebo, encased in its plastic and foil tamper proof packaging.
"It's harmless. There's our victim. Catch her eye." A mani/pedi tart, brunette, oblivious, and bobbing her head like a metronome. The pill, white and nondescript in his hand, as he elbows his way through the thick, heated sea of flesh, conversing in some unspoken rhythm only the muscles remember with fluency. He breaks the pill in half and she senses with the remains of a dormant intuition that peripheral movement as he smiles, reluctantly, in her direction. A flash of white dropped in the blush pink depths of punch, the liquid parting to swallow it whole.
"Care for a drink?" he says, extending his arm with the cup like an offering, a sacrament...
Peddled by fatalists and the crown jewel of soothsayers, this intangible and sublimely binary concept is, like a depthless wellspring from which we eternally withdraw, or notch, in...