The work week has been long and tedious and full of frustrations. Nadia does not care about that now. No filing, no deadlines, no reprimands and certainly no left-handed compliments squeezed through gritted teeth, out here she lets it all go. Out on the dance floor she lets herself forget her obligations. Out in the clubs she is queen of her own, little world and no one can dethrone her.
In her best club wear she saunters from bar to bar. Her hemlines would give her father a heart attack but that is his problem, not hers, certainly not now. She smiles at the guys, and sometimes the girls, who check her out without leering. She rolls her eyes at the people who stare. She moves through the crowds with ease, a part of them but apart from them. She rules this night and she knows it.
At least for the first hour, maybe two. Nadia buys a drink, and is offered two others. She laughs and flirts and sways to the music. Aggression takes over by the fifth mixed drink and her head feels like it is full of helium. She likes this part best: the loss of control and the denial of responsibility. Her life is full of responsibility, but never on a Friday night. She lets the bass and the buzz direct her, letting men touch as much as they, and she, like, and not worrying at all what her friends, aunts, sisters or mother would think.
A little more than half way through the night it catches up with her and ends up in a mess on the pavement outside the last stop on her club crawl. She wipes her mouth and accepts a breath mint from a new friend, straightens herself out and moves on to the next party. Nadia is out of control and loving it. This is her gift to herself, and to anyone who wants to have a little fun with her.
She won’t regret it in the morning. She has taught herself well on that. The only thing she may regret is not having enough water to stave off that hangover. No, Fridays are for no regrets. She lets loose, forgets her chains and for an hour or six, she flies with her feet on the ground.
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