I was wearing ten strands of beads, and the night was just beginning. My date had left to find a restroom and I hadn’t seen him since. Then again, who needs a date at Mardi Gras?
My dress was tight and soaked from sweat and spilled drinks. I smelled like Rum & Coke. I had worn a tube dress because it yanks down so quickly and easily, and I was determined to win my share of beads. It was also short, in case I gathered the courage to try earning a few more strands of Mardi-Gras beads. But so far I hadn’t dared - that was like inviting rape. And every man in a three foot radius grabbed for your pussy the second you lifted your skirt.
“What will you do with your beads afterwards?” yelled a voice at my ear, straining to be heard above the music and noise of the crowd. I craned my neck to see him: the crowd was so tightly packed that it was nearly impossible to turn around.
“I thought I’d hang them on my grandmother’s grave,” I shouted over my shoulder. “She always did love Mardis Gras.”
He laughed. It was a rich, dark Cajun laugh. “You’re funny. I appreciate that.”
I felt him put his hands on my hips, which constitutes ‘dancing together’ in a crowd like this. I looked down. His hands were large and dark, with fingers that were thin and elegant but also strong. Heat rushed to between my legs. His head leaned forward against the back of mine. We danced. Several minutes later he spoke again.
“You remind me of my best friend in high school. I can’t figure why.”
