Factory Settings (Short Story)

I’m dancing. I’ve had a drink, I’m dancing and I don’t really know why. Sure, Patrick is nice. I mean, really nice to me. He’s got hold of my hand and keeps spinning me around. I’m having to pretend that I’m enjoying it even though it’s making me nauseous. He’s a good guy, very sweet. Optimistic.

I’m over at the bar again. How did I get here? Christ. I really shouldn’t drink on nights like this. It’s difficult to navigate work and pleasure when your friends are all customers. In a way. No, not customers. Opportunities. I’m drunk.

Stacey’s on me now, I thought I’d escaped her but she found me because I’m waiting for my drink. I wish she’d move away a bit, her perfume isn’t helping my nausea. She’s talking about Patrick. Oh, she must be jealous. That’s interesting. I’m part of her narrative now. The ‘bitch’ who won’t stay away from ‘her man’. Are they together? If they are, he could act like it. You don’t spend twenty minutes with someone, sweaty on a dancefloor like that if it was just for the sweet rhythms. Oh, she’s still talking. Where are the loos? I could pretend I’m desperate.

My makeup still looks good considering how late it is. I’ll have to make a note of what brand of foundation it was, I presume it was one of the new ones. Is there anyone else in here? The cubicle at the end looks occupied. She’s crying. I can hear her, now that I’m in the stall adjacent. She’s on her phone, she’ll have it pressed to her damp face. Her bag strap is protruding out under the cubicle wall. It’s right near my foot. Stacey is here, she’s singing to herself. I’ll wait until she’s in a cubicle before I leave.

Patrick wants me to have a cigarette. I can see him motioning towards the fire exit.

My jacket’s still inside so now the skin on my arms are starting to sting from the cold. He’s being all poetic, explaining the stars to me. This has to be a bit. He’s slurring his words but doesn’t seem aware of it. Yes, I am cold, thanks for noticing finally. He said he could go grab my jacket but I replied that I’m fine. It’s getting late.

He’s hugging me, I can’t remember what started it, a mention of being ‘glad’ maybe. I should pay more attention to what’s happening around me. Drink less. This is a long hug, too long for what’s considered normal. I find the bulge in his back pocket. His wallet almost falls out, he sighs. Oh right, I’m touching his ass. Sure. He’s leaning in to kiss me. Okay. He’s very warm and panting almost. It’s not a good kiss. He’s pulled away to look at me.

Patrick’s at the bar and keeps pointing over at me. He’s probably letting the bar tender know that the g&t is for me and not him. I’m taking a photo of some girls for them, the lightweight phone almost slipping from my hands when I pass it back. They’re grateful.

I’m sat on a sofa, next to a lot of coats including mine. Jackpot. My arm is positioned carefully.

Patrick is coming over with the drinks, he’s smiling. Enthusiastic. I shimmy over on the sofa, my hand close by my side. The contents of a clutch bag, hidden but not too well, is with me. The money quickly crammed into my jeans. The phone with its slick body now pressed against my thigh as I hold down some buttons, activating the factory settings.

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