When I left the club, I had barely drunk my first glass of vodka. Being the only single in the group sucks, and even more so when I have to fend off douchebags trying to grope me while my two friends are busy making out with their guys.
My own dress is also betraying me; while perfectly suited to the stuffy air and the dancing, in all its glistening golden glory, it now seems way too inadequate against the spring night breeze. As I’m walking the street, my heels loudly warn everyone in a two-block radius of my coming. I guess I must be walking as angrily as I am looking right now.
Suddenly, the click-clack stops, as I see in the corner of my eye a neon sign signaling “OPEN”. It’s not a bar, or a club, just a regular diner-late night coffee heaven kind of place. What I wouldn’t give right now for a cup of coffee. Sure, the place looks empty – I’m not sure I can see an employee inside actually – but hell, I can even brew it myself. And it will give me some respite from my broody, cold walk home.