They walk in silence, alongside one another. As Cerise fidgets with the strap of her satchel, Devin focuses on keeping his hands tucked in the pockets of his hoodie - lest the urge to take her hand overpower his best judgement. A fifteen-minute trek later, they reach the Jeffersonville Square Main Road, continuing along which for another five minutes, Devin leads Cerise down the East Branch.

As they draw nearer to the shady seeming, deviant corner of the town, Devin hears Cerise nervously speak. "Um, Devin," she says, voice lowered to almost a hush, "are you sure this is the way?"

Screw his best judgement. Unable to restrain himself anymore, Devin reaches out and grabs hold of her hand, pulling her into stride with his pace. "Do you not trust me, Cherry?" As soon as the query leaves his mouth, he regrets it, pretty sure that it is too soon in their camaraderie for such questions. And after what he put Cerise through, to ask for her trust feels like a white-collar crime.

However, Cerise mumbles, "I do," and it swells his heart. He didn't expect that answer from her - he didn't really expect an answer at all.

"Good," he says as he squeezes her small hand in reassurance, quite liking the feel of her softness in his grip. It leads him to ponder on how all of her will feel in his arms. Lips on lips, skin on skin, butterfly kisses, uncertain caresses... an elegy to innocence, an ode to passion - quickly, he breaks himself out of the blandishments of his imagination. Yet, the cursed, libidinous thoughts don't seem to cease their assaults. Devin gently slips his hand out of the loose grip of Cerise's fingers, shoving it back into his pocket. "Jesus, it's cold as fuck," he mutters as an excuse.

Luckily, they reach their destination very soon. Devin pauses before the dingy entrance, letting Cerise survey the neon sign that blinks the words 'The Underworld' in bright red. Muffled music pounds through, slightly shaking the door. Looking down at her wide-eyed expression, he asks, "have you ever been to a club?"

Cerise shakes her head in denial. "No."

"Do you want to go to a club?"

A minute of contemplation later, "yes."

"Are you sure? You don't have to..."

Finally tearing her stare from the club's sign, she pins him with her dark gaze. "Are there going to be strippers and drugs?"

The honest, deadpan question takes Devin by surprise, but he doesn't let it show. With a nonchalant shrug, he looks away from her and at The Underworld's door, and replies, "drugs, yes. Strippers, no--it's not that kind of a club."

Cerise stays quiet for so long that Devin starts expecting her refusal. Then, she surprises him yet again. "Let's not stand out here like hobos," she says, "I wanna see what it's like in there."

With that, she steps forward and pushes the door open to let out a blast of EDM beats. Devin follows her inside, and they're both welcomed into the open arms of aesthetic darkness pierced by the plasmic bolts of strobelights. He almost runs into her when she stops suddenly at the entrance foyer, still as a statue. Going around to stand in front of her, he sees that she is staring at the crowd letting loose, transfixed by the mass of bodies that move, undulate, ripple across the dance floor - a human maelstorm.

"Are you okay?" Devin yells over the pounding music.

Cerise's eyes flick to his, then back to The Underworld's interior; she nods. He takes her hand again, and slowly walking backwards, he pulls her further into the engulfing throng of dancing people. Once, he wonders if she will dance with him, but he dismisses the idea; there are way too many humans in too close proximity on the floor - disgusting. Instead, he takes her along to the bar that lines the inner end of the club.

He seats himself on a high stool and she takes the one to his right. Cerise looks about her surroundings - at the people, the drinks on the shelves, the place - completely unaware of Devin watching her like she is some rare phenomenon that only he is lucky enough to witness. The lights flashing all around them highlight her in bursts of neon pink, green, blue giving her appearance an otherworldly allure. There was a time when he abhorred poetry, now he can write countless poesy - albeit cheesy, amateurish, mediocre serenades - to, for, and about her.

He inwardly cringes at the high-school-lover-boy avatar that takes shape in him, then comes to the realization that only Cerise Miller can make this egotistical, 'impervious to human emotions' Devin Jameston cringe at himself. Cerise Miller has him in the palm of her delicate hand. And she is oblivious. She is always so oblivious and clueless, it kills him.

When Cerise's gaze returns to him, Devin smiles at her, leaning forward and asking, "what do you want to have?"

She appears to be thinking, looking up a little, and he notices that the obsidian of her irises capture the strobelight flashes; multitudes of chemical sparks - he imagines this is what the birth of the solar system must have looked like. She answers with something, but he misses it in the din of the EDM and his distraction. Eyebrows raised, he loudly says, "what? I couldn't get you."

This time, Cerise leans toward him. Taking him by a tender grasp of his chin, she turns his face to the side and speaks into his ear. "Whatever you're having."

Her closeness, her lips brushing the shell of his ear, her breath fanning down his neck - Devin nearly fails to register what she says. All he can do after is nod at her, and force himself to look away from her. He swallows the calcine air that clings to his throat and waves down one of the bartenders at the far side of the bar.

The bartender saunters up to them, bringing out a pen and an order slip from beneath the counter and sliding them over the counter top. Devin picks up the pen and writes ′4 tequila shots', then pushes it back at the bartender, who reads it, nods, and puts up four small shot glasses in front of them. He fills them with a clear liquid, placing a plate of lemon slices nearby before going to attend to another patron. Bubbles travel up from the bottom of the glasses, living out their short, mundane lives by breaking the surface, touching the air, and dying in miniature explosions.

Picking up a shot, Devin drinks it bottoms up, his teeth clenching tight as the harsh fluid flares down his throat in a zesty, flavorful sibilation. He takes a lemon and sucks on it briefly, letting the citric taste add to the whole feel-good factor of the tequila. As he puts the lemon back, he glances at Cerise, seeing her observing him intently. He moves a glass over to her; she looks at it with suspicion, like she doesn't trust its contents. Angling himself closer to her, Devin says, "go on. It won't bite."

She sifts between the tequila in front of her and Devin, making him wonder if he should have just gotten a Coke for her instead. But then, she seems to make up her mind. With her jaw set, she takes the glass and tips its contents into her mouth, swallowing quickly and reaching for a slice of lemon. Her eyelids screw shut, her nose wrinkles up in the most adorable manner. Ultimately when she looks at him again, there's that excitement, that addictive zeal in her, sparkling in her eyes like buried treasure coming to surface. "Another," she rasps, coughing a little.

"Slow down." Devin chuckles.

After four more tequila shots each, the music having slowed to some generic pop song, he decides it's enough for Cerise. She is slumped heavily against the counter, staring at the tissue that her fingers are worrying to shreds. Slowly, she dips forwards until her forehead touches the counter top and closes her eyes. At this point, Devin gets uneasy. He lays a hand on her shoulder blade.

"You alright?"

Cerise gives a sluggish nod in response.

"Are you sure?" presses Devin, rubbing her back gently.

"Yeah..." Cerise lifts herself and blinks dazedly. "I need to use the washroom," she says.

"Okay, c'mon."

Devin gets off his barstool, helping Cerise stand and sling her satchel over her shoulder, he proceeds to lead her to the where the washrooms are. His hands never leave her swaying and stumbling frame, keeping her from bumping into people or tripping over her own feet. Once they reach the door with the 'LADIES' sign, Cerise pivots on her heels, pokes him in the chest and says, "you're not allowed inside," in what he assumes is supposed to sound like a warning but only comes off with a comical slur. She takes two steps backwards, squinting at him in all seriousness, and adds, "keep out." Following which, she disappears inside, leaving Devin very amused by her alcohol induced idiosyncrasy.

Devin speculates if he should wait for her, but he figures it best to prepare to leave - enough drinking for today. He goes back to the bar to get some lime soda ready for Cerise and make the payment.

***

The center of gravity keeps shifting for Cerise, making it hard for her to stay upright. It was nice at first, but now this lightheadedness is tiring her. She isn't drunk enough to throw up or pass out, just enough to feel like her body is stuck in a bog and her mind is semi-functional.

Propping herself against the sink, Cerise washes her face, hoping for a little bit more self-control - she doesn't want to make a fool of herself in front of Devin. Despite how the alcohol makes her feel - a shifting mix of glee and doubt, and some inexplicable sadness about something she doesn't quite understand - she is happy about her first time drinking, and that too, with Devin Jameston. She is hopelessly in for that boy, and she knows it, no matter how much she keeps dismissing her feelings as teenage hormonal interference and high school crush phase.

The ever persistent question remains - does Devin like her that way? Is she Devin's type? She knows she isn't; she knows isn't what her peers call 'girlfriend material'... she knows he only sees her as a good friend - at best, a best friend, probably. And when they all graduate high school, go their separate ways, he'll forget her because she isn't indelible, she isn't beautiful, she's just 'that girl in high school who liked poetry'. Maybe this is what's seeding the sadness to grow amidst the drunken happiness; the knowledge that Devin doesn't look at her the way she looks at him, the knowledge that her love is unrequited. And it kills her.

In her cupped palms, Cerise collects water and once again, washes her face. She repeats the act, rubbing at her face and her eyes until the dampness seems to seep in and settle bone deep, the cold helping her focus better. From beyond the bathroom's door, she can hear the DJ's mix restart, thumping like low magnitude seismic waves. I should go back out, she tells herself, remembering that she left Devin waiting there.

Taking a couple of paper towels from the dispenser beside the sink, she dabs her skin dry. Just as she prepares to leave the washroom, her phone takes the moment to ring. She brings it out of her bag only to gape at the caller ID in horror. An onerous dread fills her bloodstream as the name 'Jenny' illuminates the screen. Abruptly, the ringing stops with the message '5 Missed Calls', and her already thundering pulse suddenly sounds louder than the beat drops pounding in The Underworld.

Knowing Jennifer will call again, Cerise quickly locks herself in the farthest cubicle to further drown out the music from the club. And just like she expected, the phone rings. She takes a deep breath and answers the call.

"Hello?"

Without premise, Jennifer asks the very question Cerise premonitively dreaded. "Where are you?"

Cerise has to swallow before she can reply. "At work..."

"How about you tell that lie to my face?" Jennifer's razor-edged challenge makes Cerise's legs feels leaden.

"I--"

"You better be home in five minutes."

Cerise feels just as dead as the disconnected line on her phone. She needs to reach home, for the more she delays, the worse her impending grim fate will be. The sound of her bloodrush overpowering the club's music, her heart thudding against her rib cage, she exits the bathroom, but finds no trace of Devin. She calls his cellphone before realizing that he might not be able to hear the ringing over the cacophony. Her doubt is confirmed when he doesn't answer.

A sense of foreboding, like she is running out of time, descends upon her like an asphyxiating smog. Instead of looking for Devin, Cerise chooses to abscond - she will call him later and explain why she abandoned him. She pauses at the entrance foyer nevertheless, looking back into The Underworld's depths one last time, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. In the epileptic codominance of abyssal blackness and psychedelic lightbursts, she doesn't find him. Heart sinking, she turns and leaves the club, reconnoitering her surroundings so she can pick the fastest path homewards.

***