Page 1 of Best Woman

It’s so hot inside the club, the walls are dripping.

I’m not a very good dancer, but tonight isn’t about dancing. I’m on the prowl, but I’m no sexy feline. I’m a bumbling, bipedal animal and evolution has not been kind to me. I watch everyone around me pair off in twos and threes—the first orgy on Noah’s ark, after the flood.

Suddenly, like light breaking over the horizon, I see her.

She stands alone, nursing a drink long turned to ice, leaning against the sticky wall in jeans and a black tank top.

Her messy mullet is meant to look effortless, like she took a pair of shears to it herself, but I’m guessing it’s the work of the lesbian-run salon in Williamsburg that specializes in sapphic shags.

I bob and weave through the heaving mass of bodies, mumble something loud enough, charming enough, to catch her attention. We join the other dancers. Her arms are strong where they wrap around my waist, and her hair is slick with sweat that drips into our eyes as we kiss.

In no time at all, we’re shoved inside a bathroom stall, furiously making out, hands in each other’s hair. I don’t know her name, but I don’t need to. She doesn’t know mine either. She doesn’t know anything about me.

After, when I’m back out in the sea of bodies, I don’t feel any different than before. My feet are beginning to hurt from these shoes. Just another night, another party, another nameless stranger. Another train ride home alone.

Better luck next time.