10:38pm

Aprés hours. My sister has her hands

on the glossy disks of the DJ set. 

Most everyone here is less skin and more sweat,

what with a squealing, overworked fan

sputtering in the corner. The plan

was to stop for a breather before we went

downtown—to warm up, piss, reset. 

Not to stay here. My sister misunderstands.

Hey, I can't blame her. She looks fantastic,

like the booth was built around her.

But please, dear God, let me leave this attic

and the smell of fake tan and liquor

from Gracie's. Still, I'll wait. I'll crush plastic

cups underfoot. The night is far from over. 

11:56pm

"Quiz me," she said. "I'm 22. From Jersey."

"Zip code?" "Oh, fuck—uh, eight-oh…eight-oh-

no. I'm lost. Wait. Eight-oh-nine-oh-three." "No,

girl, you're so off. Is that your real one?" "Really?

Wait. Yes it is." "We're fucked." The cover is free

on Thursdays. They peek in our bags for show

and warn us about salted stairs: "Walk slow."

They stamp our wrists with ink that bleeds

an indigo stain onto my sleeve. Party 

thumping like the hind leg of a jackrabbit. 

Place is packed wall-to-wall. Jean-to-jean.

"Oh my God, I love this song." Split 

second and my sister is weaving between

the crowd to get in the booth. Then she's backlit.

2:01am

"Promiscuous" featuring Timbaland 

still ringing in my ears, we scramble outside

to a densely-packed pedestrian street. Lines 

dissolved hours ago. We're numb to the cold. 

"Did you kiss anyone?" My sister tongued 

two 5'6 men in backwards caps, eyed

the girls from a distance. "I tried."

I didn't really. I felt too young.

She snaps her head back and laughs more

for herself than for me—I think she just likes

how her own hot breath feels against the sore

of winter. "Babe, it's not on you. All the dykes

are at RiRas. Man…do you think I'm a whore?"

"Of course not." I mean it. She's starlike.