Lightheaded

By the first shot, she was dancing.

By the second, she knew the song she was dancing to. It was a memory song, something half-remembered, something sweet and hot and light. She swayed and moved in ways that brought a blush to her lips and a shine to her eyes. No one knew her eyes shone best when she was crying. He knew.

He didn't remember like she did. The third shot brought him to her mind, the fourth put his taste on her lips. The fifth dismissed her sense of illusion. He was real. He was there. He was kind. He was true.

The whiskey told her so, and she danced a dance to warm him, to warm him in her blood. To start a heat in her, and did she burn and grind and roll and turn on the empty floor. Hollow men looked on her with hollow eyes, but her whiskey man, her memory man, he saw her true and hot and sweet and true.

She was dancing for him - for his taste, his touch, his fire eyes and wind-whisper kiss. She knew his hidden paths and his secret ways. She knew his pain. She was nude in his fingers. He was naked in her light.

The last shot brought him back. The shot after brought back the world. The shot after that painted the sky. The walls were red. The hollow eyes were silent. The dance was done. Her head was killing her. The memories were out.

No more shots to go. Her tab was rung. She was free of the smoke and the dance and the memory man. She was free of the hurt. She was done.