Her mouth tasted like metal, or cigarette smoke, she wasn't sure which.
The shimmering wet street reflected the golden orb of a single street lamp, a strand of traffic lights flashing red, and the shiny tires & rims of a silver Lincoln Towncar parked opposite where she lay.
The scene was scewed, her orientation off, as Megan was lying on her stomach, her throbbing head scraping against loose bits of gravel as it turned to the side. She wiggled her right foot for self-assurance, took a mental inventory of what hurt and what didn't; she could wrestle no memory from the night's events to explain how she became prostrate on an abandoned street in New Orleans. She remembered the packed Drink Houston club in Texas, her new friend, Gary, asking her to dance - no words, just taking her hand softly and smiling, so leading-man handsome, his urgency in wanting to go somewhere for a cup of coffee to get to know her better.
"I don't know what this is, but I feel our lives have changed forever tonight", he'd told her, then they danced until she got dizzy, just before she followed him out of the club early, leaving her girlfriends giggling at a table in a far corner; the couple leaned heavy against a new Lincoln, kissing in a moment of both splendor and a whisper of nagging suspicion that tasted like metal, now ambiguous alarms clacking against the wet concrete in her direction.