Ensure you share your location with someone you trust.
Avoid dark, isolated, or obstructed areas if walking alone.
And my favorite:
Trust your instincts.
Because, duh, if you’re a woman and you happen to find yourself in a situation where you end up murdered, you really do have to consider the part thatyouplayed in getting to that point.Things like murder don’t just happen to women.It’s because yourinstinctswere off.As if every woman’s intuition isn’t a finely tuned divining rod for identifying danger.The reality is you can’t avoid that danger if someone really wants to manhandle you into its path.
The reporter allows a moment of grim eye contact with the camera before, with a head tilt and lip quirk, they move on to some “good news” segment to counteract the brutal murder coverage.It’s a stark change of tone.One accepted and extended by Laurie when she bends her head over the couch, a pensive look on her pretty little face as she asks, “So, what are you wearing tonight?”
CHAPTER 2
“I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life killing somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.”
—NotWhen Harry Met Sally
After a montage-worthy rotation of outfits, and two breakdowns that end with Laurie and me agreeing the fashion industry is a sick, twisted terror on society, I end up wearing the first dress I tried on.It’s my favorite:Pretty Womanred with sheer rose petal–like sleeves and a square neckline that—teamed with a well-fitted underwire bra—makes my boobs look absolutely fantastic.When I did a little twirl in front of the only full-length mirror in our apartment before we left, it flared out above my knees in a way that rivalsDirty Dancing.
Of course, it might turn out to be too dressy for an event whose dress code consisted of a bullet point list for the men and a vague “cocktail attire” command for the women.Of course, I bought it on sale, and even then, cursed its existence each time my credit card bill turned up for the next few months.Of course, it’s the first week of November and the coat I have to wear completely dampens theeffect of the dress.But that doesn’t matter.Because it makes me feel confident and sexy and like I can hold my own through one hundred minutes of anonymous dating—even if that little self-doubting voice was the one that made me take it off the first time.
If watching rom-coms has taught me anything, it’s that you don’t dim yourself for fear of shining too bright.You wear the dress, you sing out loud, you take the leap.And if watching slashers has taught me anything, it’s that you take chances whenever you can.Run out the door, grab the knife, double tap the killer in the head with a sawed-off shotgun.That’s why I do my makeup like a Hitchcock lead and pretend it wasn’t a fluke when my hair falls over my shoulders in bouncy honey-blond curls after I release it from the clutches of the curling ribbon.Even if tonight is a bust, Laurie and I will walk off arm in arm in the direction of the nearest gyros purveyor, giggling like we’re freshman in college again as we detail the highs and lows of our round-robin dating experience.
New York traffic decides to play nice, but as we make our way across Brooklyn, I wonder if my meticulous roommate has typed in the wrong address.The route becomes familiar in that hazy déjà vu kind of way, and when I look at Laurie, I catch her eyes narrowing in recognition as we get closer and closer to our destination.
When she steps out of the Uber before me, looking stunning in a black, slippery silk jumpsuit that moonlights as a vest and wide-legged pantsuit, she props her fists on her hips, turning her head to survey the street.
“Huh…” she says as I slide myself off the leather seat and step onto the sidewalk carefully.The cocktail attire dress code knocked out any chance of wearing comfortable shoes, thus Laurie and I are both wearing heels that were designed for sitting rather than walking.
“We’ve been here before,” she says confidently, and it draws my attention away from watching our Uber take off down the street.Thetaillights look like two glowing eyes retreating into the darkness and the visibility of our surroundings becomes highly dependent on the dim light of the streetlamps that curve up and over where we idle on the sidewalk.A brief invasive thought of how they look like the metal claws of Freddy Krueger’s gloves crosses my mind before I fully focus on the building in front of us.
“Really?”I ask.“I think we’d remember a singles thing at a club.”
The other events we’ve been to have been in art studios, bars, restaurants: warmly lit, open plan, first-floor spaces with large windows so you can gaze out at the street if your date is boring.But the building in front of us looks like it used to be a warehouse or something.It looms large over the dark, empty street.The neighboring clubs are closed, in stasis until Friday, and while this whole street would’ve been bustling on the weekend, right now, on a Tuesday night, it just looks like a ghost town.
“No, I mean, I feel like I just stepped back in time.”
I squint at the two heavy metal doors—one open, one closed—in front of us.The sign above them, a romantic tangle of glowing blue letters that spell out “Serendipity,” is the only one that’s lit on the whole street.I’d remember a name like that.Cocking my head to the side, I consider the double doors.Thereissomething about them that rings a bell, though.
“Itisfamiliar in that fuzzy ‘this place is the reason I don’t drink Kamikazes anymore’ kind of way,” I say, and that is the prompt Laurie needs.She clicks her fingers rapidly at the sign as if the name is on the tip of her tongue, before pointing and exclaiming, “Cravin’!”
I’m almost knocked over by a wave of memories flooding in at the name of an earlier iteration of the club.Very fuzzy memories.Memories of strong drinks, bad kisses, glass crunching under shoes, and deep and meaningful conversations with strangers in the bathroom.
“Cravinnnnnnn’!”I reply like it’s a call and response.We haven’tbeen here in years, but this wastheplace when we were twenty-one.For a few months, at least.Back before we lived together.Before I started my master’s and Laurie got her first of many internships, and weekends became less about going out and more about discussing whether pursuing careers in the arts and academia were reasonable life choices.
“I wonder if it still looks the same inside,” she muses.
“Surely not.”
The thing that was such a draw about Cravin’ was all the spaces.Not “space.”Spaces.The building must have been converted from a factory—one with offices and maybe even lodging for workers—because across the three levels of the club, there were hallways that led to dead ends, rooms with love seats, alcoves with booths, and a whole range of other kinds of hidey-holes.Aside from the huge, open space of the dance floor, the rest of the building—the perimeter of the club on the ground level, the bar in the basement, and the mezzanine on the top level—was like a mouse maze.It was the highlight of a drunk girl’s night and the best way to avoid the attentions of a guy who refused to take a hint—or find a covert spot to hook up with a guy who was able to take a very different kind of hint.
“Let’s go check it out.”Laurie grins at me, grabbing the sleeve of my coat and pulling me toward the entrance.Once we make it inside, I realize the cool blue signage above the doors was a ruse because the interior of Serendipity is red.
Like,Suspiriared.Carriered.The iconic river of blood spewing out of an elevator in Stanley Kubrick’s seminal masterpieceThe Shiningred.
Cravin’ was all black and brushed metal and slick minimalist design.
Serendipity looks like the set designer ofMoulin Rouge!took LSD and cleaned out every velvet and gas lamp supplier in the state.
