My New Year party

New Year’s Eve I’ll be locked in a limousine with Bridgett and too many bottles. I slip the window up, pour champagne across her thigh and lick it off before the bubbles reach the seat. We laugh, peel clothes, spill drink, come together again while the city streaks past the tinted glass. The driver stays quiet. We don’t. The night stretches out and we keep at it—every stoplight becomes another excuse to push deeper, spill more, finish what the next green light interrupts. Bottles roll under our feet. I make her come twice, slow and shaking, then twice more when she decides it’s my turn. By the time the car pulls up at the club she’s trembling in my lap, dress twisted around her waist, lips red and swollen. We tip the driver and step out barefoot, still hungry.