The bass shook the stairs Sam stood on, the sudden strobe momentarily blinded her, rendered everyone frozen (like weeping angels ["Neeerd."]).
From across the tiny club, her friend spotted her and in the renewed red-blue spot lights she could see his smile. Then he looked at the crowd and made a sad, "Cant-get-to-you" face, so Sam plunged off the stairs into the throbbing throng, and twisted, and smiled, and spun, and ass-patted her way to the reserved (always reserved) booth her Matt friend was sitting in.
"No Andrea tonight?" Sam asked.
"Does she ever come out any more?"Came an accidentally more terse response than either were expecting.
"You really should drag her sometime. It'd be nice to hang out with the two of you."
"She doesn't leave the house, just stays in, knitting all the time, now." Matt took a exasperated swig of his whiskey sour before grouching, "Says she has projects to finish, and that she'd just get in the way."
Sam declared, "Well that's bullshit." And then, "I need a drink. Come with?"
"But of course."
. . . Drinks got, acquaintances hello'd, they hit the dance floor, smiles wide, Sam's cleavage high and bobbling, just like Matt's drink (ice cubes on the dance floor, some poor girl in too high to dance heels careening into an Asian dance circle and everyone laughed. . . ) and the vibe rolled into them, onto them and around them like an adoring cat --people came, pulled into their gravity and danced and laughed and flirted and fell away, orbits and other gravities doing what they do to club goers and always those too, Sam and Matt in the thick of it, drunk far more on each other than the booze, more stoned-high too, than anything they could actually imbibe.
All the way 'til the lights came up and they grinned and wiped the sweat from each other's brows and shared swigs from a bottle of water one of their satellites gave up as it spun away.
"I'll talk to you soon," He whispered and squeezed the small of Sam's back, "My Driver's leaving, talk to you soon!"
And she smiled at his behind.