It was as if a pinch of fog was all that stood between Rihanna and the complete memory that would connect her to the situation in which she found herself this morning, lying on her own couch, head the size of a dirigible- sticky and sore in all the wrong places.
She had gone to the Zulu Club, of that she could be sure, as she had carefully chosen the dress she awoke to find dangling about her throat like a necklace, because the leopard print seemed appropriate for a club that had the reputation of being quite the hot spot for wealthy young men on the prowl.
She had purposely gone there alone, because she knew her desire to go to the Zulu of all places, screamed “desperate” in so shrill a tone, even the thought of admitting she was entertaining the idea of going there to any of the girls she worked with, brought rose to her cheeks and a tear to her eye.
But, that was the truth of it, she had reminded herself repeatedly, and nearly become willing to accept, as she nursed three or was it four vodka martinis, sitting alone at the smooth leather cusped bar trying hard to avoid her own reflection, feigning contentment as she swirled the olive in her drink with the barbed spear that served as a swizzle stick.
His face came to her in waves, it was a young face, much younger than her thirty seven years, framed in tousled blond hair that slightly obscured clear blue or were they brown eyes, she couldn’t really remember as she was so grateful for the attentions he was paying her, it hadn’t really mattered.
As she groped her way across the living room and pulled aside the drape, verifying her car was indeed in the drive, she knew she had hit a new low- not only did she have no recollection of driving home- again, but for the life of her, she couldn’t even remember his name.