There was no sign of the impending hazard, there was no indication of the dangers she faced, but if she was truly unaware of the potential for injury while doing her chosen pastime then she was incredibly naïve.
And she didn't look inexperienced or naïve. She knew the score; she was dressed to achieve her obvious goal. The low-cut neckline, showing her impressive cleavage, was engineered for attention and designed to ensnare mens' eyes. The short clubbing dress that ended a few inches short of her waist was deliciously tight. It promised so much, masterminded to encourage sly looks and free drinks. And the high heels that she tottered so convincingly on, holding her calves taut and firm, accentuated the length of her legs and brought her from five foot nine to six feet in height.
She was a clubber, but she was reckless; pacing towards the dance-floor with drunken exuberance and then running onto the polished dancing area with unnecessary zeal when her favourite song was chosen by the in-house DJ.
She slipped; her right leg sliding when her high heel skidded on a pool of spilt drink: an occupational hazard in any nightclub. She should have been more aware; she should have known the dangers on any nightclub dance-floor.
But she didn't. She fell: her flailing body adorned with a yelp and a cry. She landed with a bump, her dress rising to reveal a white flash of lacy underwear. Her breasts spilled, and as no-one else came to her aid, my flatmate and I helped her to her feet.
She smiled and thanked us, mildly embarrassed. George and I bought her drinks, she flirted. All three of us did. We teased and laughed, making sexually provocative small-talk until the club started to close.
