I need the bathroom.
Where the fuck’s the bathroom.
I find it in twenty-five steps or less.
My hand shoves open the door.
It smells of cherry vanilla and vodka breath.
And there’s a fucking line.
Three girls are waiting.
One’s glued to the mirror,
painting her mouth red.
Lipstick. A capclickingshut.
My heartbeat’s crawling up my throat.
My eyes crawl across three stalls with black doors?—
three coffins with brass locks.
I pace off to the side,
my hands shaking.
Sweat drips down my neck, my back,
and sticks to my shirt.
Everything inside me’s pulling tight?—
muscle, blood, bone, all screaming.
A stall opens. I lunge,
cutting right in front of the next girl.
“Move, emergency!” I shout,
swinging the door closed,
the lock clicking behind me.
“Wow, okay?”
“Seriously?”
I’m digging in my purse.
Hand sanitizer, travel-size KY, wipes, spare thong—party’s all here.
Skort unzipped, panties pushed,
and the second my finger hits my clit,
