Last Dance. It’s a 6.

“You understand about NDs, am I right?… the “Disclosure” in “Non-Disclosure” refers to anything you saw, heard, think you remember, hell, the name of the bouncer at the last joint we were asked to leave; if you even smile at the thought of a stray image that might remain in your subconscious, you will be in breach of that agreement thereby inviting certain and unpleasant ramifications – in other words, say anything to anyone about tonight and you’re f”d.”

Denise, now front seat passenger in the rented Vanta-black limo, the promise written into every online, print, even the order form, read simply “Girls Night Out” and despite the revelry induced disarray to her hair and clothes, looked very much the stern parent admonishing their student driver child for running a stop sign.

The driver nervously adjusted his tie as if it were a tightening noose and stared at the woman sitting beside him, an unexplainable contradiction, she was Mary Poppins, but with a whip; he smiled slightly at the thought.

“Holy shit damn, would you look at the sunrise, how incredible is that sky… the girls have no idea what they’re missing!”

Halfway out of the door, one foot on the concrete of the sidewalk, Denise leaned back in, an eye to details and need for accounting reflecting her non-wild-night self; the dry-splatter beach sand on the carpet prompted a smile, silent after-the-fact gratitude that everyone knew how to swim; she closed the limo door, bag filled with pieces of lingerie, a couple of matchbooks, a business card, then touched the small bandage on the inside of her left forearm hoping the ink would look as good in the daylight as it had last night, the only part of the evening she lost control.

As the sun took its final step up to the horizon, the Bartender took the last step down to the entrance to the Six Sentence Café and Bistro…