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5
Christina
I walkto meet Jenna in the lobby of the Cosmopolitan Hotel in Las Vegas, and nod in approval at the swanky décor. I smile at a sign that read 'Eggslut Café.’ I have to give that place a try for breakfast. Who comes up with these names anyways? I check in at the front desk, grab my key card, and walk to the elevators, my black heels clicking across the polished marble floor.
"I thought it was you!" I hear a voice say. "Perfect timing!"
I turn around to see Jenna, running toward me with arms outstretched. Jenna is joining me in Vegas for the convention. She has a head full of curls that bounce and sway like a tumultuous ocean every time she speaks. Her personality is unnaturally bubbly but I’m grateful for some excitement right now. She’s like a human cup of coffee.
I embrace her in a tighthug.
Jenna says, "Tonight. The Marquee Nightclub. We have togo!"
"I don't know…" I say, unsure now if I want to just crawl up in my hotel room or if I actually want to do something fun. "I was planning on staying in tonight,” I tell her. I just don’t feel up for much. I look around and I see plenty of Jenna-type girls. Young, bubbly, excited. I feel old and tired.
"You're kidding, right?" Jenna says in disgust. "No way are you staying in! Who are you, my grandma? We are in Vegas! It's called Sin City for a reason!"
"Fine. Maybe for just one drink," I reply, squinting my eyes at her grandma comment. “Low blow,” I tellher.
Jenna hugs me again and I brush off the comment, knowing she’ll say anything to get a rise out of me and get me to come out with her. She wants to spend time with me, and we could have fun. So that’s exactly what I’m going to do, I resolve.
That night, I comb through my suitcase for the perfect outfit and know I’m making the right choice with my form-fitting sexy green evening gown. It hugs my ass, hips, and breasts in such a way that I feel like my 22-year-old self again, gripping, grinding, and pole dancing my way through college at the Spearmint Rhino.
I apply a coat of classic red lipstick to compliment my green dress, and take one last approving look at myself in the mirror, and head out. I text a VIP club host before arriving at the doors to ensure I would be on the guest list and avoid the lines. The bouncer shines a flashlight on the guest book, finds my name, stamps my wrist, and grants me access.
Inside the club, the dark interior is sultry. People a decade younger than me carry drinks onto the dance floor, asses hanging out of miniskirts, thrusting their bodies to Top 20 pop songs. Drinks with names like sex on the beach, high balls, and dark 'n stormy slosh beyond theirrims.
I pony up to the bar and flag a bartender. "I'll have a cosmopolitan."
Then I spot Jenna wearing a glittery top that reflects the light of the dance floor.
"Over here!" I yell, getting Jenna’s attention and half jumping out of myseat.
"Dang, you look hot girl," Jenna says, walking over and giving my arm an affectionate squeeze.
"What?" I say. “I look hot?” I am not sure that’s what she meant. I mean, I think I look okay but I still feel out of place in thisclub.
Jenna bends toward my ear. "Hot!" she yells. "I said you look smokinghot!"
"Thanks girl," I blush. "You're too kind. These clubs are made for girls your age, notmine."
Before Jenna can respond, a group of men approaches us wearing matching black t-shirts that read, ‘I'm with Goody' in white print. Their accents are Australian. The way their biceps bulge beneath their tight shirts — they could be from the cast of Thunder from Down Under.
"What's your shirt mean?" Jenna asks, seductively drawing in one man by the collar.
"My mate's gettin' married!" the man exclaims. "It's his bachelor party and we're here celebrating. Would you ladies care to join us for a dance?"
For a moment I think, I can’t, I’m married. But I remember that I have a dead husband and unwavering attraction to my stepson, so I just say nothing and reach for my drink, taking anothersip.
I mean, you can’t make this shit up, youknow?
"Well, I'm in!" Jenna shouts, almost too desperately. She grabs the man's arm, her hand looking small in comparison, throws her head back in laughter, and heads for the dance floor.
Another man stays behind, surveying me. "C'mon, just one dance," he pleads. "What would thathurt?"
But I won’t be persuaded, and after a few failed attempts, the man joins his friends on the dance floor.
I sit at the bar alone, carefully swirling the drink in my glass and absently bending the corners of my drink napkin into careful curls.
