It isn't that he means to survey the room. That sounds intentional. He simply does. He does not question it much like a dog doesn't question why it bites, or why a jackal moves to hunt, or how the owner of this stripclub doesn't question this setlist. He counts the doors out of instinct, guessing one-hundred-twenty steps between him and the first, and he sees his boss tinged pink like medicated cocktails. She looks detached (?). He peers at his watch then stands back up.
"It's eleven." Past her bedtime. "I have to drive you home," he says, making her table of glossy friends moan and groan. It's a wonder if they even are her friends. Nothing has weight up this high on the ladder. They're all name brands, TMZ headlines in waiting, parasites for her fame, and trained smiles through removed buccal fat. Either way, he's her getaway driver, or he's clipping a caged bird's wings. / @laperlina.
