The beginning chords of Von Iva’s “Not Hot to Trot” ricocheted in her head. She had the volume on her well-loved Walkman as high as it could go, since only one of her headphones worked. With her hands tucked into her jacket pockets, she hummed along, alternating her eyes between the door and the tipped-over salt-shaker on the table.

She hated these customers who liked to make appointments. She hated the ones who didn’t keep their appointments even more.

“Fuck,” She lit a cigarette, dragged on it harshly. She had a tendency to blow her smoke up in the air, in a thick, gray cloud. She’d watch it dance and fade into nothingness and figured it didn’t bother anyone. But, motherfuckers are quick to say, “You can’t smoke in here.”

A waitress tip-toed over, timidly fiddling with her hands. As she approched the table, she spoke.

The girl with the headphones couldn’t hear her under the Björk, pulling the left headphone–the one that worked–away from her ear to catch, “...can’t smoke in here.”

She shrugged indifferently and nodded. Mumbling, “Okay” and taking one last puff and stubbing the cigarette on the table. With a faint attitude in her usually calm voice, she informed the waitress that she was waiting for someone and wasn’t ready to order. The waitress walked away, happy to busy herself with something else.

She hated this fucking place. Look at these bitchy waitresses, cheap art on the walls, and that only-restaurant-in-town feel. It made her sick, so fucking the same as every other place. She sighed, skipping past a few songs till she found one that was just right. She leaned against the wall, but was too smart to close her eyes in a place like this.

It was his place; the guy walking into the door, tall, fierce, and dark shades pulled over his eyes. She hoped this was him; she stopped humming to pray it was him.

He took a seat across from her, clipping his shades on his shirt. He sighed heavily, relieved. She did the same.

He thought to introduce himself, but he figured he’d let her break the ice.

Sitting up, “Hi, you are?” She said, letting her headphones fall upon her neck.
“Whatever you wanna call me.” He replied.
“I think I wanna call you late.”
“Well, I don’t like to come too quick.” He cocked his head and winked.
She smiled, only a little. “Dani.” She introduced herself.
“Trent...do we shake?”
“No, just smile and nod.”
He obliged. “So how’s–”
“Look, I got the stuff. You want it or not?” Kind of irritated.
“No conversation with it?”
“That’ll cost you.”
“Well, if you got time, I got money.” Trent tossed a fifty on the table.

She stared at it for a moment. She needed it and he wasn’t that annoying... She stuffed it into her pocket, behind her Walkman.

He wasn’t trying to charm her, just needed somebody to talk to. Plus, he was kind of hesitant about buying this stuff off her. He had to know her, somewhat.

“So, you were saying?”
“How’s life?” Trent asked.
“Just fine.” She probably didn’t mean it. “Yours?”
“Shit.” Without hesitation.
“Yeah?”
“Completely.” Trent stood the tipped-over salt-shaker upright.
“Well, that sucks...So is this gonna make you feel better?” She motioned to the little baggie peaking out of her purse.
“Hopefully. So, why do you do this?”
“Don’t know. Why do you do what you do?”
“Good question.”

They threw a lot of good questions, evasive answers, and innuendos around before Trent followed Dani into the women’s restroom–he didn’t mind walking in; he’d had a many good lays in powder rooms. And Dani thought it was better than the shitty-looking restaurant.

They stood in a single stall, vis-a-vis. Dani pulled the baggie from her purse, with its white powder inside, pre-grinded at Trent’s request. His face lit up, in the weirdest of ways, as she open the bag. He stuffed the bill in her jacket, taking the bag.

“I need this shit now. What can I...y’know...snort it off of?” Trent asked, whispering, almost embarrassed.
She sighed; she knew he knew jack-shit about it. “Here.” She pulled a compact from her purse.

With a little force, he popped it open, lining the cocaine up on the circular mirror. He looked down at his reflection, magnified and exaggerated. What the fuck was he doing?

Trent King didn’t do drugs. He drank himself stupid and fucked women. Sure, there was the one time he took ecstasy, but that was in a club, under pressure. This is was his conscious decision, his choice. His mistake, quite possibly.

Fuck it. Words to live by.

Eyes focused on Dani’s pout lips, and with a tightly rolled bill, he did the first line. It hit him. Hard.

The second was still shit–less shitty though. The third felt good. And the fourth was fucking Heaven. He collapsed against the wall of the stall, his head resting against it. He felt good.

A full-body orgasm.

He stumbled out of the restaurant. A smile on his face. He couldn’t remember if he’d fucked her or not–he probably did.