Turner 454

          The Mellow Mushroom was packed solid with people. Sarah knew it was even before she'd gotten within two blocks, because dozens of revelers had already taken their piece of the party out into the street. It was still and warm out, and the bodies Sarah could see as they passed under the auburn-tinted lamps were shiny, sticky, and lightly dressed. She stopped, contemplated going back to change, but knowing if she did she wouldn't come back.

          "What the hell am I doing," she asked her reflection in a store window. She looked good… for a slightly adventurous accountant. She was wearing her swoopy silver silk blouse, but at the last minute she covered it with a thin, black half jacket that nonetheless canceled out the daring neckline. And while she felt somewhat exposed in her shortest black skirt, she knew it was positively modest by Atlanta nightlife standards.

          Her brown hair looked black at night. She let it down, despite having spent half an hour getting it up right, and tilted it in front of her in the dim glow of the jewelry case on the other side of the glass just to see the color again. She stepped back, tugged open the jacket a bit at the shoulders, and fussed with her hair a little more. Better.

          The overemphasized beat of some '70s punk band washed over the neighborhood, and Sarah could have closed her eyes and just followed the sound and the smell of beer and garlic right to the door. When she got there, she saw nothing but a sea of torsos and arms on all four floors of the Italian restaurant turned nightclub. The sidewalk, awash in the intense blue glow pouring out the windows, was cluttered with groups and couples that had just given up trying to get in.

          At the entrance itself, there was a line of maybe six people, and a bored-looking teenaged girl with a half-shaved head managing the traffic. Every time someone walked, staggered, or fell out, she'd let someone in.

          Sarah got in line, and a handful of other late revelers quickly crowded behind her. She tried to loosen up, and swayed a bit to the music, but she could tell most of the people inside were already heavily lubricated, and her neck tensed as she braced herself for random gropes and the unavoidable bath of assorted body fluids.

          The heat of the people standing outside with her was already making her sweat. As Sarah got to the front of the line - the teenager noisily chewing something that sparked blue and white and made strange squeaking noises - she just cursed and pulled her jacket off.

          Now at least she looked like she could be having a good time.

          With a curt cock of the girl's head, Sarah pushed her way in. She tried for a few tip-toed steps to avoid rubbing against sticky arms or bump into sweat- and beer-soaked shirts, but there was no avoiding it. About five meters in, she gave up and let herself get shoved around like everyone else.

          The roar of the band, even though it was on the second floor, still inspired the crowd to merely bouncing in appreciation or shouting at the top of their lungs. In every direction, every second, someone was hollering, "What?"

          "Woooooooooo!" came a high-pitched, nasal voice, piercing easily through the din. Melissa, wherever she was, was definitely celebrating.

          Quickly beginning to feel a little trapped, Sarah fought to stay rooted to one spot. She imagined that she'd found a position on the packed floor, between sets of jostling elbows and unsteady legs, where no one would fall or drip on her. But she'd barely made it past the entry foyer of the 'Shroom, and the bar - the only possible source of relief - was about sixty wriggling people away.

          Then Sarah briefly caught sight of the back of Vince's head, which was just beginning to turn her way when the sea of people washed back into the void.

          "What the hell am I doing?" she asked again.

          And she hated the answer.

          She was there for Vince. Because Vince missed her, and despite everything, she missed him. And they both knew that in 48 hours they'd turn their hats, take a few pictures, and walk out of the rest of each other's life.

          "Vince," she choked, pride catching in her throat. She shook her head, disgusted at herself. "Vince!"

          He didn't hear her. She barely heard herself. She took a deep breath, and strung together every curse word she could fit into her growling exhale. She tugged down her skirt, squared her shoulders, and while she imagined herself storming out the door and back to her apartment, she pushed forward, deeper into the fray.

          The music suddenly reached a crescendo, and everyone started screaming and flailing their arms far above their heads. Sarah ducked down and found a little more room to maneuver below the dank canopy of elbows and armpits. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted a pair of frantically stamping feet wearing a pair of large, fur lined bath slippers.

          "Bekka's here too," Sarah sighed.

          A crash of drums, a tempo shift, and the forest of dancers lurched.

          Sarah stumbled, and visions of her prone on the floor in a puddle of everything flashed through her head.

          "Whoa there," a low voice boomed from somewhere, as a hand wrapped instantly around her waist, yanked her upright, and dropped her back on her feet, smoothly as if it had been the latest new dance move. "Whatever you're drinking, I think you've had enough."

          Dazed, she blurted, "Vince?"

          "Sorry, no," said the tall, broad-chested, red-headed man who smelled like lavender and was definitely not Vince. "But if that's who you're looking for..."

          "No no no," she heard herself say, keenly aware that some other part of her brain had at that instant taken the helm. "I'm not... he's... that's..." - she gave herself a mental slap - "Vince is my drink's name. The name of my drink. Vince."

          Not good.

          "What?" he yelled.

          She silently thanked the band, straightened her back, and reset the scene.

          "I haven't even been able to get to the bar," Sarah shouted with as much charm as her tonsils could muster. "I just said I need a drink!"

          He held out his arm. She took it.