Discalimer: I do not own anything from Cocktail or "Team" by Lorde.
I'm kinda older than when I reveled without a care.
She slithers through the crowd, her eyes closed serenely, her head held back and bobbing to the relaxed beat, her waist swaying to the rhythm, her molten curls faded in the flashing lights, and the dimples in her smile clear as day.
You've been stealing looks at her while the other girls all steal looks at you. You notice, of course – you always have. It's just that, today, it doesn't matter. You have a new subject to focus on tonight – someone who's not you.
Miss Dimples is still dancing on the floor, curls and curves bouncing gently yet everywhere. You see the bartender's eyes flashing to hers, as are other males' on the dance floor, and for the first time you feel a need to do something to stare at the woman in appreciation.
So for the first time that night, your hand moves from the still-full beer you bought an hour ago and you crack your neck while getting up. You have a beauty to introduce yourself to.
I'm kinda tired of getting told to throw my hands in the air.
She's gorgeous in full color, you note, seeing her out of the bright lights. Her hair isn't natural; that much is obvious. Beautiful lazy and dark corkscrew curls streaked with lighter colors, and it's a little crazy; but her hands run through her hair languorously and you suddenly can't find it within yourself to consider even this a flaw.
Her tanned, toned body is just barely hidden beneath the napkin that is apparently a dress. You honestly can't complain about that, really.
You move closer and closer and all of a sudden you're right in front of her, your hands lightly placed around her fantastic hips, just a few inches underneath the swell of her breasts, and you're both gyrating to the beat.
She finally opens her eyes just as the last beats of the song fade, and you're diving into a deep pool of dark chocolate.
Her full lips inch into a smirk, just one dimple now. "Hi there."
Not very pretty, but we sure know how to run free.
It's an hour later, and you two have stayed on your feet the whole time. She hasn't done anything less than keep bobbing this whole time, and even though your feet are killing you in these new shoes, you've let her pull you in close and full-on danced when she did it.
Because she's like a drug. You have be fully in to enjoy the high that is Veronica.
Even then, you two have done nothing but touch, smirk, and flirt, and just barely exchange names.
If she notices you're a little less invested in enjoying the music, she doesn't comment. If she notices you're a lot more invested in raking your eyes over her, she still doesn't comment.
Living in ruins of the palace within my dreams
It isn't until an hour later that the crowd has started to clear up and the DJ has started to play less hazy (and apparently to Veronica, less fun) songs that you two are finally sitting on one of those fashionable but stiff couches that clubs seem to have just a sparse amount of.
Her head is in her hands, and her bare feet are pulled up on the couch, her heels sitting next to her. And her eyes are trained straight onto you. A small smile is etched onto her face, but it's just as amused as the smirk from a while ago.
You should feel like a deer in headlights or a fly under a magnifying glass. And, to be honest, you kind of do.
How long will it take her to discover all your secrets? To pillage you physically and emotionally? And even if it's not intended maliciously, to open you up and dissect you like some sort of surgeon?
But you stare into those chocolate irises and napkin dress and self-satisfied, amused smile and all you can see glaring back at you is someone who gets you, will understand you, is just as screwed up as you.
And you're up and over, and she looks a little startled but there's actual excitement in her eyes for once and just a bit of a challenge in her smile finally. Her eyes follow you as you reach down, hands gentle and she nods just slightly. That's enough for you.
Enough for you to be nuzzling her neck, her gasping and raking her hands over your back as she breathes out, "He fell for my best friend. I'm the one who you call for a fun time, not the one you introduce to your mother."
And you mumble right back into her smooth neck. "And I'm dying with no one to turn to and no one to love."
And no girl's lips have ever tasted as great as hers did when she kissed you goodbye that night with twinkling eyes and a full-toothed smile creasing her face.
And you know, we're on each other's team.