I frown down at my phone, feeling mystified. Who would that be?

*Who is it?* I fire back, my eyes lingering on the screen of my phone, watching for another text.

“Is everything okay?” Dylan purposefully asks, and I finally relinquish my engrossed gaze on my phone, and tarry my eyes to him. He's got a gravelled expression on his face, his eyes scurrying between me and my phone twice in indication.

*Yeah, why?” I inquire, raising a jaunty eyebrow, and an arctic look fills his eyes for a split second, before he governs his countenance once more.

Before he gets a chance to retort, a cloying, dulcet, feminine voice interrupts, invoking our attention to target the intruder. “Dylan.” A middle-aged brunette approaches us, green eyes zeroing on me with curiosity. I can't help it when my eyes do their job as well, discerning how she looks. She's got a slender figure, attired in black jeans, and a white tank top that doesn't obstruct much of the colorful tattoos on her thin arms. Is this Patty?

As if reading my mind, Dylan unriddles any puzzlements with a resonant tone. “Candice, this is Patty. Patty, this is Candice, the new receptionist.”

I extend my right hand for her to shake, and she takes it in a gentle grip, giving me a quizzical smile. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet our new rescuer.” She exuberates in a singsong voice, causing me to smile right back at her.

And then she embarks on listing my responsibilities, going from calls to scheduling, and if it wasn't for Dylan telling her that I start tomorrow, I'm sure she would've unboundedly went on. I've always reckoned that receptionists do nothing but hang around and chew gum while meeting customers with bored, catty miens, but apparently, that's not the case. I'm thankful when Dylan excuses us for the night, assuring Patty that I'll be back tomorrow, and she gives me a list with tomorrow's sessions, entreating me to come after I finish my classes forthwith.

I take off with Dylan, and unlike the ungenteel mule he is, he decides to take me home. During the ride, I find myself dissecting the names and the sequence of tomorrow's schedule. There's more that twenty customers, which addles me. I don't know how much a tattoo parlor is supposed to earn, but the place seems to be profitable, yet not lucrative enough for its owner to buy a Porsche. Promptly, I recapture a memory of Dylan telling me that he doesn't work at that place, which impels me to ask him where he works, except that I don't get to do it, before my eyes fall on tomorrow's date.

September 18th.

My birthday.

Tonight, I turn nineteen.

It's like a sudden volcano erupting inside of my demised soul, memories of my birthdays with my family and Ethan precipitating over my head like gurgling shots of burning lava. It's not the first birthday I spend alone, but it's the first time I forget all about it. It's like my life has become so negligible that I don't even remember when it has begun, and as miserable as it is, I have literally no one to celebrate it with me.

Not even myself.

It takes most of my might to swallow the massive lump that forms in my throat, and force my eyes to stay latent. The comatose state I force on my body vastly contrasts with my scorching insides, but I still don't yield. I have already given Dylan enough about me, and I can't afford to let him see more.

“Would it be too much if I ask you to deliver me to NIGHTS?” I ask Dylan, and then wince when my voice comes out brittle and spaced-out.

He looks sideways at me, but I don't grant him my attention back. He'd see how deep my soul is scarred. I just keep staring ahead, watching the cars as they speed by. “Yes, it would. Why do you want to go there again? Is the new job too petty for your majesty?” He grills, his voice bittersweet​.

I huff, too enervated to pick a fight with him. “I'm meeting up with my ex coworker there.” I lie, and my voice comes out coarse and fatigued.

Silence saturates the car for a few moments, before I hear him humming in understanding, abruptly reversing the direction. We remain silent during the whole ride; however, my contending thoughts fill the void. My head is flooded with memories of those birthdays I've had with my whole family, and how the family members started to become decrescent, before I lastly found myself alone. Now? I don't even want to celebrate. I just want to eulogize the loss of self-love, and spend a night devoid of any insidious memories. I want to be numb, inanimate.

There's only one way to do it.

I only notice that we've reached our destination when the car comes to a stop, jouncing me back to reality, and I discover that it doesn't vary much from what I had going through my head. It's just as hardhearted. I instantly unlock the door, before I glance back at him with a forced smile. “Thanks.” With that, I begin to step out, but his hand grabs mine.

I thought memories are only wiped away by amnesia, but his hand in mine felt like an alleviation, a far-fetched cure to my cancerous thoughts.

It felt natural.

“You want me to wait here for you?” he asks, his eyes dubious. Why is he being obsequious all of a sudden?

A titter emanates from me, incredulous. “No. I can manage alone.” I blink at him, waiting for a reply, but he doesn't provide any, only the vexatious, undemonstrative countenance of his, so I take off this time without any hindrance. It's funny that in the nineteen years I have undergone, I hated whatever and whoever dared to stunt any move I make or trammel me in any way, but right now, I want the exact opposite.

A few seconds later, I hear the unmistakable sound of the car pulling away, and for some reason, I feel like I was just stripped of my final hope.

I wander into the place, this time as a customer, not a worker, but somehow, I don't attain the rush of complacency I thought I would get. I occupy a stool at the bar, staring at my surroundings​ like a baby who was just intercalated into life. Sam–the bartender–appears before me, giving me a weirded out smile, but never uttering a remark. God, how I love to line up boundaries, and I bet he's so mirthful that I'm finally gone. I don't just order one shot of tequila, but two, and I immediately guzzle one down the moment he emplaces them in front of me, attempting to burke a gag. Signaling to Sam for another one, I down the second, and it doesn't take minutes before the magic works and I start to waft.

Until I feel a hand clamping on my shoulder. “I knew you were plotting a disaster behind my back.”

I jolt from the semi state of drunkness, turning to look at a stolid visage of a great asshole who dared to ruin my ameliorating mood. See? That's all he does; steal my happiness. “Missed me too soon?” I slur, before making an attempt to rap the shot of tequila Sam just put before me, but Dylan is faster. He seizes it with no effort, leaving me high and dry.

“Any reason behind the pity party you're throwing for yourself?” He asks in an unctuous tone, his eyes flickering from me to our surroundings.

“Any reason behind the inflamed size of your big nose?” I fire back.

“Are you sure you wanted to ask about the inflamed size of my “nose”?” He questions, a smirk tugging at his lips.

I huff. He's too damn cheesy. I motion to the glass he has in his grip. “Give me the damn thing.”

He startlingly turns serious. “Not before you tell me what's wrong.”

“And what exactly makes you think that something is wrong?”

He hums, thoughtful. “You were silent for the whole ride, unusually refraining from giving me murderous looks. You thanked me for the ride, and gave me that fake smile. You were even considerate enough to tell me that I don't have to wait. Of course something is wrong.” He shrugs, and I try to close my wide open mouth. I've never met someone who's so hyperalert. He squints, a frown knitting the space between his eyebrows. “Is it that text you received?” He interrogates, endeavoring to snatch my phone from the bar, but I wrest it before he does.

“No.” I deadpan. “Tonight is my nineteenth birthday.”

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “And you're celebrating in this shit hole?”

“I'm not celebrating.” I grit out.

“Then wha-” he starts, before he halts, his eyes widening. “You’re not celebrating, are you? You don't even have someone to celebrate with, right?” He asks, realization blossoming on his face. A smile grazes his lips, before he continues. “That indeed needs a pity party.” He declares, downing the shot of tequila in his hand.

“Fuck you. I'm not pathetic.” I leer, my eyes filled with spite.

He laughs once. “Alright. My sincere apologies. How's this: you're not alone. I'm your friend and I'm here for you.”

My face screws up in disgust. “Hell no. Go back to being an asshole please. Pathetic is much better.” I murmur, beckoning to Sam to fetch us two more shots.

Dylan studies me with a frown, and even though I haven't known him for long, I can tell that he's in deep thought, before the frown dematerializes, his expression turning stern . “You can either drink slowly and have the best birthday of your life, or just guzzle down drinks and bring them back up, along with a bitchy hungover.” He warns in a nonchalant tone.

“Best birthday, huh?” I sarcastically laugh.

He shrugs again. “And it's on me.” He says, his eyes twinkling wickedly. “Just let go to me tonight.”

I try to bypass his compelling eyes for as long as my body and chaotic head allows, but then Usher's voice interposes, singing “I don't mind”, and my legs start to joggle up and down, the dose of alcohol and the intensity of Dylan's eyes making me primed to hit the dance floor and strip of everything that is going through my head. As if reading my mind, Dylan's lips spread into a sultry smile, before he hops off his stool, pulling me by the hand toward the dance floor. A laugh bubbles up my throat as we join the gyrating bodies, planting ourselves amongst them. I don't know if it's the alcohol, but I find myself slowly morphing into someone else, perhaps the girl in the portrait he painted of me. My body starts slow and shy one second, and the it becomes bolder by every sequential moment that follows, before I find my hips moving on their own, writhing and rocking. Dylan watches me with eyes filled with delectation and gleam, his hands tucked into his jean pockets as he slowly and confidently rocks his hips from side to side, and I try to keep my eyes away from his crotch area, but fail miserably, discerning a slight bulge. My eyes dilate a bit and I look away, my body reacting immediately when the song shifts to 'look at me now’ by Chris Brown.

Suddenly, I feel two hands clasping my hips, dragging me backwards so that my back meets a sturdy front, and Dylan's familiar smell invades my senses, making me lose track of my moving body. His hands regulate the rhythm of my hips, his head slanted downwards so his nose is nestled between my neck and shoulder. He's not even pressed against me, and I'm already so hot for him. He spins me back again so I'm facing him, and I find my arms moving on their own to circle​ his neck, and my imprudence drives me to move closer . A song follows another, and I don't know how much time goes by, before my breathing depletes and I find myself out of air.

“That was crazy.” I admit to Dylan as he accompanies me toward the the bar once more, unloading a fit of rattling laughter.

“Is that your idea of crazy?” He emits a caustic laugh, hopping on the stool next to mine.

“What's yours?” I retort, annoyed.

“I've got many, but all of them are too tough for you.” 

I open my mouth to challenge him to tell me something that would bespeak his words, but then an idea strikes. “I want to get inked.” I announce, giving him a bold look.

His eyes momentarily widen, a surprised look flitting over his face, before he goes back to his impassive demeanor. “Close, but..” His eyes pore into mine, daring me to cower. “Are you sure?”

I part my mouth to retort, but I find myself freezing in my place when Dylan's face is forcefully shoved to the side by the impact of an interposing slap.

 I scream.