Rachel Eckermann 11

Claire decided to go out to a club while the clean up guy took care of the problem. She just wanted to forget and have some fun. There was nothing more than she wanted oblivion. She went out and Out, threw herself into a whirl. She was dancing with some French guy whom she did not even know the name of. What was the point anyway. She wanted so desperately to be. "You dance good. You from American." "Yes." She heard herself say. She hated Frenchmen and had nothing but contempt for them but she didn't care. The men were guardly jealous of their women who were rather flavorless. "You want a drink, yeah?" "Sure," she heard herself say. Yes she wanted a drink. Let loose and dance. Claire's hair was cut in the flapper style. She was lost in the motions as the music thumped and thumped. He brought a drink. She gulped it down. He started to laugh. "You crazy." "You're fucked," she heard herself say. He took a step back as if stunned. The music was hypnotic and somewhat of a rhythmed frenzy. She wanted to dance, dance, dance. He approached and tried to dance next to her. She let him in somewhat, but the last thing she wanted was some guy. She went for the restroom and snorted some snow. She felt a bit calmer, but she was rising and rising and rising. She went out and Out and danced the night delirious with no one in particular, signing herself out into the night, forgetting the stars of brilliant illuminations, forgetting what time was or the space-time continuum that connected universes to each other in a daisy chain. Who really cared if one was dead or alive. Life was what it was. It was a beautiful blossoming flower, cornered into night, beaming buds of pure, blushing reds. "Wanna Fuck?' he asked. "Wrong verb," she responded. She left him there and went to the bar and ordered a dry martini. He followed her.