cats

Her hand grasped lightly at the ceiling. Or more specifically, the grid of light boards that made up the suspended ceiling. The grid concealed a network of cables, pipes and other utility devices, but whether the slivers could support weight was in question. Especially unstable, intoxicated mass set in motion by gyrating hips. Her mouth was agape and the uncertainty was evident across her brow. But as her second foot arrived sturdy on the table the sober-like expression faded in favor of the previous expression of dim-witted happiness.

The room had a light drunk odor. A crude mixture of cigarette, cologne, perfume, and sweat. It was crowded. It was small. I was within twenty feet of the door and I was half to the back wall. There were no vacant seats and the remaining drinkers were vying for real estate to stand.

While the amount of time that passed is lost in drink, it wasn't much later when she walked past, and i got a closer look. About as tall as I, she was sporting a black top with jeans. Because of the meandering path to the bar, there's no way to tell if she would be walking straight if able. My instincts say no.

Her hair is dark and pulled back. As she waits for a friend to buy her some more fuel for her neuron-killing spree, she begins to converse with a fellow patron. He's a bit taller than she, but nowhere near as influenced. The conversation directly surrounding me and the tunes in the background provide too much aural distraction to hear what's being said. Drink-buying friend turns slightly with money in her right hand and speaks—quite loudly because I can hear her—of Dark-hair being married in the immediate future. Patron gives a half-hearted laugh in apparent embarrassment of what sparked the mention of the hitching.

The Cheese. I'm suddenly curious. Black briefs with white seams over jeans is an odd statement. But a phrase as peculiar as "The Cheese" emblazoned on the back brings more unfortunate attention. Friend and Dark-hair move closer to the open floor where groups are dancing. Another patron leans and says something inaudible. In response she turns quickly and thrust her pelvis forward. From appearances the move was a bit more sudden than she intended, but reveals the "I [heart graphic]" at the front of her briefs. I [heart] the cheese. Stunning.

Where is the groom to be? Is this an isolated incident or will he be plagued by girls' night outs for the duration of wedded bliss? Is he just as inebriated and flirtatious? Is she trying desperately to fulfill her desire to experience other things? Have they been together for years of mutual convenience? Is it a marriage brought about by social pressures? Is the stress relief of finally securing a position as housewife what drives her thirst? Or is it the mild depression brought about by the same realization?

But really the most pressing issue is a much simpler one; who will be assigned the duty of holding that dark hair back as her night comes back one wretch at a time?