A handful of cheap beers, a shot of absinthe, and a terrible ridiculously overpriced first club later, I’m in the underground. The music is of the hard drum line, dubstep variety. The crowd is closer to me in age range. The pit is sweaty, a cluster of flesh. Beers are cheap. I have four for the equivalent of 5 US dollars.
She gyrates, fist pumping with her friends. She breaks and takes a seat on a stool not far from me. I place my drink next to hers as she looks up from her phone. “Don’t steal my beer,” I say. She laughs and say’s she’ll keep it safe in her broken English. I step away smiling and go back to dancing momentarily. We catch each other’s glimpses a handful of times. I return to my drink. I complain she’s stolen a few sips and she laughs saying what if I have. I say “Well you’ll have to repay me one way or another.” We exchange names. I slur back her overly complicated syllable strewn foreign name, a name that by the time of this writing can still not be remembered.
I tell her of my travels. Not long after, we are exchanging cheap beer tastes. She’s on spring break. A medical student. Quite an appetite for greys anatomy and Doogie Houser. Which naturally leads into a conversation about one of the only gods I hold dear: Neil Patrick harris. Our mutual obsession with How I Met Your Mother emerges. We approach the bar. A joke of cocktails. A virgin a sex on the beach is listed on the menu. I ask her what the hell that could possibly be. A more accurate description would have to be second base on the beach for the virgin version of it. We dance and shift, sex on the beach(es) in hand. Jumping up and down to the hardline whooping sounds reigning down over us. She moves in close to me. I pull her in with one hand. We lock. She pulls me in and kisses me hard, my hand moving its way down.
Flashes of scenes in a bathroom with a tv in front of the stalls. Somehow, someway we are both in there and then we are not. I am walking back alone, not quite sure if I said goodbye.