She pulls me into the bathroom, my mouth is on hers but it isn’t, it’s on her chest, her neck, her shoulders, I pull off her shirt and she pulls off mine.
“In,” she breathes, “my,” she breathes, “pocket,” and I reach into her pants, tug them off a bit, shakily pour the coke out onto the bathroom counter, assemble what look to be lines, start out straight, a crooked mess at the far end, “doesn’t matter,” I say, or think, and we pull away from each other only to inhale.
She’s on the counter now, her hair tumbles backward into the space between the sink and the mirror, my hands lost within it.
The thump of some hip-hop hit from however many years ago muffles her moans, at least, I hope so because everything is much louder than it should be, I am infinitely aware of the rustle of her skin against my rough fingers, I hear it over and over again, I am inside her, and our reflection rocks faster than we do, I follow the outline of her arms with my eyes as they pulsate to the tempo outside of us.
Her nails dig into my forearm, our breathing slows. I kiss her without moving, her fingers unclench and she closes her eyes, bites her lip. I put my jeans back on, she follows when she opens her eyes.
We come down the stairs.
“I’ll be right back,” she says.
I stand at the foot of the stairs alone, watch the other guests, their faces looking so different from my own.
I’m searching for a beer when I hear the yelling. I am the last to notice because when I turn to look for the source of the strife, everyone is already silent, already staring at the kitchen.
The yelling stops.
Kat comes out of the kitchen, gripping the door frame, her face red, wet.
Jesse comes out next, looking for someone; it’s me, I am already down on the floor by the time I feel his fist hit my face, and I am out the door by the time I hear him say, “Don’t come back here,” and I am retching on the side of the parkway by the time I remember fucking Kat.