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“I’ll stay right here,” I said. “If that’s alright.”
Jade gave me a long look, half disappointed, half amused. “A talker. Fine. You’re buying.”
So I bought. She drank vodka sodas and told me stories. The regular who brought her a sandwich every Thursday. The stag do who’d tried to pay in Monopoly money. The night a footballer cried on her shoulder for an hour and tipped her a grand. She was funny, sharp and filthy, and she kept her hand on my thigh the whole time.
Every so often she’d get called up to the stage. I watched her climb the pole, hang upside down, slide down into the splits with her eyes on me the entire time. When she came back she was glowing with sweat and smelled amazing.
“You’re still here,” she said, almost surprised.
“I’m still here.”
It got late. The crowd thinned. The DJ started playing slower and slower songs, and the bar staff began stacking chairs. My wallet was lighter and my head was pleasantly fuzzy.
Jade leaned into me, her bare shoulder against my arm.
“You know it’s nearly closing time,” she said. “You could stay till the lights come up. Or you could get out now while you’ve still got cab money.”
Her hand slid a little higher on my thigh.
“Your call, talker.”