What the hell is happening?

The pencil skirt is tight, the heels are killing me, the blouse feels like it’s going to explode if I make a sudden move and I don’t understand when the hell my chest grew. I grab my purse, put in the necessary items for a quick touch-up of my makeup and get ready to leave. Just as I’m about to open the door, I retrace my steps and grab the orange perfume bottle; I look at it for a moment and finally drop it into my bag.

“You look gorgeous!” exclaims Belén as soon as I step out.

“I forgot that heels are always torture,” I comment before getting into the car.

She starts the engine before I can even put on my seatbelt and I question why I decided to go out. Belén talks nonstop about a client that’s driving her crazy, the little that I understand before focusing on the nighttime landscape has to do with a wedding, an unrealistic deadline and a last-minute cancellation.

“Yes, it’s quite an issue,” I say when she finally falls silent, clearly waiting for my opinion.

“Thanks, you just confirmed that you haven’t been listening,” she reproaches, looking away from the road.

“How do you know?” I inquire more out of curiosity than to cover myself.

“Let me think... canned response, your gaze fixed on the window, and you didn’t even realize when I changed the subject to our double date.”

“Date?!” I exclaim, turning my head so fast that a pain in my neck reminds me that I’m not an owl.

“See... I never mentioned a date,” she points out with mock anger.

“Yes, you’re right, I wasn’t paying attention,” I finally admit. “Where are we going?” I ask, realizing that I no longer recognize the way.

“To a new place, trust me, you’ll love it,” she assures me with a suspicious smile.

“Sure I will,” I reply with a sarcastic tone.

҉

The music is loud, the crowd is overwhelming, and if I felt any more out of place, I’d definitely be orbiting with the moon. I look like the damn disco secretary. Our group split up after the first catchy reggaeton song. I search for Belén with my eyes, and when I finally spot her, she’s making out with the security guard. I sigh, trying to avoid rolling my eyes; this girl never learns. When his hands move down to her butt and start to make a move under her dress, I look away. We’re friends, good friends, but not enough for me to see her naked. I grab my phone and send her a message:

√√ Hey! You’re busy and I didn’t want to bother you. I’m done, I’m going home. I’ll text you when I get there.

I grab my bag and pushing my way through the crowd, I finally make it outside. There are no taxis in sight, so I decide to walk to the nearest avenue, which Google says is five blocks away.

“These damn useless shoes,” I mutter as I take them off and start walking in my stockings.

After two blocks of torturous walking, I step on something wet and slimy.

“Please let it be saliva, please let it be saliva,” I beg as I discover a whitish liquid stuck to my right foot.

I step aside and take off my stockings, crumpling them up and throwing them in a nearby trash can. Unable to shake off the feeling of disgust, I open my bag to see what I have on hand to clean my skin before putting my shoes back on. I grab a disposable tissue and wipe the sole of my foot, but the feeling persists. Finally, I decide to wet another tissue with the perfume my grandmother gave me. After all, it must have a certain percentage of alcohol that will remove whatever I stepped on.

As soon as I open the bottle, the warm feeling returns, and I clean my foot. While I’m at it, I wet my finger and run it along my neck. It smells amazing and makes me feel spectacular.

I check the time on my phone and notice that it’s not even one in the morning yet. God, I’m hot. I unbutton my shirt a little, there’s no one around, so modesty takes a backseat. I unbutton more than I should, but I feel too good to worry about modesty. I continue walking, the sound of my heels echoing against the pavement, no longer feeling like torture. My skirt lifts with every step, the disadvantages of wearing clothes from four years ago... I give it a tug every now and then to bring it back into place.

Some blue lights catch my attention, a bar that looks calm enough opens its doors so that I can at least fulfill my duty of taking my life. I go in, sit at the bar, and wait to be served.

“Miss, can I offer you something?” the bartender asks.

He’s too young and cute to talk to me anywhere other than his job.

“Yes, please... I would like a... Um...” My mind goes blank as I see him glance down at my cleavage.

“Perhaps a sparkling wine?” he suggests, pulling me out of my embarrassing situation.

“I... um... Yes,” I answer, feeling my face flush.

“Coming right up,” he says before winking at me, reaching out for the wine glasses hanging on the bar, and giving me a glimpse of his toned stomach when his shirt lifts up a little.

“Oh, my God. Act normal! Close your mouth and look at your phone!” my brain orders in a state of alert.

He sets the glass on the bar and smiles at me again. I look down and open my purse to grab my phone. When I unlock it, I see a message from Belén: